


Hurricane

by eudaimonic



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Because of course he is, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oops, S&M, a high end prostitute, also just a warning there are mentions of past domestic abuse, and a lot of deviancy, and dubious morality, and really fucking gay for eachother, and sex, but maybe don't read if violence triggers you in any way, dan is a prostitute, in which dan is the sub, only mentions though, that gets into a lot of trouble, there's a few OCs, there's also a prophecy, they're also immortal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimonic/pseuds/eudaimonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I open my eyes and exhale, searching the room to determine what is amiss. Nothing. Nothing but the dust and the air. </p><p>And yet, something lingers, something unsettling and alarming and indistinct all at the same time."</p><p>*</p><p>In which Dan and Phil live in New York in the not-so-distant future and are brought together by extraneous variables. Their meeting is intrinsic. Their power is ineffable. </p><p>(Please note that Dan will be written in first person while Phil is written in third person)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thrumming

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome!  
> Want y'all to know that this is also posted on Wattpad so if you happen to see this here and there it is not stolen but if you have any concerns then feel free to message me at saddedly.tumblr.com and I will clear anything up :)  
> This is a complete idfic, none of the triggers apply to this chapter (except maybe kidnapping?) but I've put a list of all triggers in the story at the bottom for you to read at your own volition  
> For anyone who is not effected by triggers then you may want to skip it because it does contain spoilers 
> 
> Title (and the whole story basically) is inspired by Thirty Seconds to Mars' Hurricane

Here I stand, battle ready, in a darkened room. Nothing is coming and it is nothing I am ready for as the silence ticks like a broken clock.

My eyes close against what little light the window provides as I inhale the scent of disturbance. Nothing is coming, but something has been. I can feel it in the air, the dust still settling around a ghostly presence that can't be seen nor heard; the thrumming in my bones stutters like a blown stereo and there is still nothing here.

I open my eyes and exhale, searching the room to determine what is amiss. Nothing. Nothing but the dust and the air.

And yet, something lingers, something unsettling and alarming and indistinct all at the same time.

I move, silent as can be across a wooden floor, and open the double doors leading to my bathroom - I don't enter, but I leave them like that and watch them. There is no movement, no wind. I move to the large walk in wardrobe, do the same, get the same results.

I open all of the drawers and cupboards and cabinets and windows but still nothing changes. The disturbance still lingers but still, nothing appears.

I chalk it down to paranoia and put everything back, ignoring the prickling of unease down my spine as I allow my guard to drop. This isn't the first time I'd come home to a feeling like this; in a city like New York, robberies and burglaries weren't exactly uncommon, but the first time I actually had been robbed. The building I live in, for all of its glory and upperclass-ness, has a shitty security system.

Last time I was lucky, in my line of work you learn to hide things - lies, secrets, money, drugs - pretty easily, and the invaders hadn't managed to find my hidden cash or other things hidden in my apartment. This time, nothing has been taken or even broken, but it feels unlucky. It feels wrong.

-

I wake up to the buzzing feeling in my bones thrumming and fizzing like a horde of angry bees. The unease feels stronger than ever before and I sit up.

I breathe the silence in, deep and cold.

My clock reads 3:33, the glowing red letters screaming at me in the pitch darkness of my bedroom. I feel the disturbance from earlier had grown, like a dark stain on my mind - like a dropped coffee mug on an early morning, like thick blood on a late night.

I reach over and touch the lamp on my bedside table, flinching away from the harsh light it emits at the tap of my fingers. I look around my room and, still, nothing is amiss - nothing except the air; the way it presses against my skin, leaving goosebumps on my bare chest and arms, the way it feels in my throat with every breath, sticking to the roof of my mouth like slime.

Suddenly, something strong hits against the door on the other side of the room, the dark wood shaking in the corner of my vision. I sit up straighter, flinging the covers from my legs and bracing myself to run at any moment - you learn from growing up on the streets, living on the rough like I had my whole life.

Another two knocks startle me into standing, and then there is nothing.

The silence is loud, rushing through my ears like the waves in a conch.

After some moments of nothing but the sound of my shallow breathing, I approach the door, checking through the peep hole to make sure whoever was there had gone, and - seeing the hallway outside deserted - opening it with a tiny metallic click as the lock disengages itself.

My breath is steady as I look from left to right, checking for any sign that the visitor had stayed behind to catch me unawares. There is nobody in sight, not a soul.

I close the door and lock it behind me.

Then I burst into action; moving into my wardrobe and grabbing a bag, stuffing it with clothes I don't bother to look at - they're all black anyway.   
I rush into the bathroom, grabbing the talc bottle I know doesn't contain talcum powder, my toothbrush and toothpaste, and throw those in the shabby backpack too; then I go to the kitchen, grab the biggest knife I can find, and fly back into the living room/bedroom. I grimace as I slash the heavy velvet curtains that I had loved, but I know it is necessary as I begin to remove the wads of cash from the linings of the drapes, shoving each one into the backpack as I go.

Another bang at the door, this time less like a knock and more like someone trying to break it down. I curse and hurry my actions.

The banging never stops, and the sound of the heavy wood chipping away from the other side, grates on my ears. The thrumming in my bones reaches astronomical levels, filling me with nervous energy as I deliberate over my options - I can't run now, I was too slow and now I'm trapped.

There's only one thing for it. A piece of the door splinters away, and there's no more time for hesitation; I hastily shove my feet into the barely worn Vans at the foot of my bed, glad they are slip on as the door busts open, a large man in a leather gimp mask silhouetted in the doorway - an axe held tightly in his gloved hands.

I grab the backpack by the handle and sling the thing on my back even as I'm running, running towards the window. Heavy footfalls follow me across the room as the man gives chase, but I know he won't catch me.

I jump before I hit the glass, covering my face with my hands as my shoulder jars in its socket - the window shatters - I fall.

I land on my feet, my hands hitting the floor to help shield my body from the impact. There is no pain, even as I feel the weight of my fall on my knees, and the glass sink into the skin of my palms. The backpack slips from the one shoulder I had managed to hook it onto and lands on the glass with a muted thud that I don't really hear as I rise, chest heaving as I look around for witnesses. None.

I take a deep breath, brushing the glass off on my black skinny sweatpants. I look up but from this distance I cannot not see the broken window of my apartment, it's so high up. Sixty-seven floors and I had jumped from the sixty-sixth. Nine hundred feet and not a scratch or an ache.

Without missing a beat, I fling the bag back onto my shoulders and begin to walk - not halting for even a second just in case the guy has friends, hiding in the shadows like snakes.

I walk into the city - leaving the tainted, deserted streets of my old building behind - and I disappear.

It's easy to disappear in New York City. 

 

-Meanwhile-

It's late by the time Phil deems himself finished for the day; he always stays late, and his manager doesn't mind so long as everything is cleaned and locked up when he leaves - truth is, Phil enjoyed the feeling of being in an empty bookstore, surrounded by thousands of different stories, so much better than his own, without the interruption of others.

Nobody asking him where this book or that book is - despite the store being clearly organised in alphabetical order by author.

He also prefers not to go home to his drab apartment, he has no money for the books he loves so much, living in New York City is not cheap.

Phil locks the doors of the Barnes & Noble behind him, closing the shutters too so that nobody can break the glass - you can never be too careful in a city as criminally driven as this.

Then he shoves his hands in his pockets, noticing the chill of the night as it bites at his face and causes his breath to fog out in front of him. He smiles to himself, imagining himself to be a dragon - he's always wanted to be a dragon; powerful and mystical. Something more than ordinary.

He doesn't live too far from the store, and the way is mostly through Times Square - where the hustle and bustle never really dies down. Phil is used by now to the half naked people (and fully naked people) hanging around by the red steps, the woman painted to look like the American flag with a lady liberty crown on her head and torch in her hand, the person in the scruffy looking Elmo costume, the hordes of drunk men wearing nothing but their jeans - even with the ever present chill which is characteristic of New York in November.

Phil ignores them all as he quickens his pace, determined to make it home before the cold permanently settles in his bones.

He cuts through the alleyway the block before his building - and regrets it immediately.

He doesn't notice the man standing in the shadows until he is already upon him, shoving him into the wall with something hard and cold digging into his stomach. A gun.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be." A voice whispers, and Phil automatically raises his hands above his head, wincing as the man searches through his pockets with his free hand.

"I-I don't have much." Phil stutters, tears springing to his eyes as he watches the mugger toss his empty wallet aside and presses the gun deeper into his stomach.

"You have money!" The mugger accuses, grabbing Phil's upper arm with his other hand and shaking.

"N-no!"

"Liar! Give it to me!"

Phil squeaks as he is shaken once again, his foot slipping on the gravel causes him to careen to the side and the man, startled, presses the trigger.

Phil feels nothing, but he knows he's been shot by the way the man looks at him. He looks down, see's the blood on his shirt, and looks back up at the man who had shot him.

Why doesn't it hurt?  
Shouldn't this hurt?  
Shouldn't there be more blood?

"My God." A gruff voice mutters, laced with horror, and Phil realises that his mugger is looking at him with something akin to fear.

Phil looks back down, and watches as the bullet pushes back out of his flesh, and falls to the floor.

There is no wound left behind.

"You-you're the devil!"

Phil gasps. "No!-"

"Stay back!"

"I don't-"

"Stay back, demon!" And with that the man is running, his gun left abandoned on the gravel at Phil's feet.

Phil's hand shakes as he raises it to his stomach, pressing on the hole left in his work polo, and feeling nothing. No pain, no gaping hole, not even a scab or a scar.

He drops to his knees and vomits off to the side until the contents of his stomach comes up empty. Tears fall unchecked down his cheeks as he stares at his hands - covered in blood from a nonexistent wound.

"This can't be real." He whispers, staring until his vision blurs. "That isn't possible."

Phil straightens up, looking around himself for a sign of another person, tears and snot and vomit mingling on his face, his hands dripping blood onto the floor. Shakily, he reaches out, picks up the bullet that had been imbedded in his skin not moments before, and inspects it.

It doesn't look how he expects it to - it is flattened on both sides, the metal warped into a weird shape so unlike what is seen in the countless action movies he had watched. It too is coated in blood, and it is warm - so warm, like it is alive itself.

He closes his hands around the tiny piece of metal and hauls himself to his feet - using the rough stone wall as support when he sways dizzyingly.

"Not possible." He mutters, and stumbled the rest of the way to his apartment in a dazed, feeling crazier and crazier the closer he gets to home.

It isn't possible.

-

Phil isn't sure what to do the next day; he feels like the events of the previous day had been a dream, but as he goes to brush his teeth and sees the tiny piece of warped metal sitting innocently on his bathroom counter, he knows it hadn't been.

The bullet is clean of blood - as are his hands and unscarred stomach.

The only evidence left that this tiny piece of dirty silver metal had been in his body is the ruined Barnes & Noble shirt, covered in dried blood and with a small round hole in it.

He picks up the shirt when he enters his tiny bedroom, staring at the small hole - wondering if it too would disappear without a cause.

He doesn't hear the first knock on his door, only snapping out of his stupor as the insistence of the knocking increases.

"Hello?" He calls out, his voice shaky.

The knocking continues with no reply, and Phil backs away.

Phil begins to panic, gripping the ruined shirt in his hands as he stumbles away from his apartment door.

"This is the CIA open up!"

Tears fall down Phil's face once again as he chokes over his own words, psychotic mumbling and apologies and pleas escaping his mouth like a tsunami. The door bursts open with a bang as it is kicked inwards by a serious looking man in a black suit and he flinches, falling to his knees with the shirt still clutched in his hands. He feels cold all over, whether that is from the fear or the fact he is still only wearing his boxers - he doesn't know.

A man in a dark suit kneels in front of him, speaking to him, but the words are lost to the raging panic in his head.

Is he being arrested?  
Are they going to experiment on him?  
What is happening?

A sharp slap brings him back to his senses and the present - armed men in suits and sunglasses are inspecting his apartment, one man in particular - a man with dark skin and dark eyes - is leaning in front of him as if he were a child.

"We need you to calm down, boy." The man says, his dark brows creased into a frown as his brown eyes lock onto Phil's blue ones. "We're here to protect you, not hurt you."

"H-" Phil cuts himself off with a shaky breath. "How do I know that?"

"You'll just have to trust me." The man smirks, definitely not eliciting any trust with the way the expression sits wrong on his face.

Phil gapes. "I don't know you."

Something sharp pricks his neck and he gasps, seeing the needle too late as his vision begins to swim. The mans concerned eyes are the last thing he sees as his vision switches to black, static filling his ears.

"Someone get him some clothes!" A voice orders.

And that is the last thing Phil Lester knows before he falls into an ocean of unconsciousness.


	2. Leather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter is where the explicit rating is earned
> 
> sorry in advance for the awkwardness :)

New York City is not as it used to be, dirt now clogged the sin filled streets - tourists had moved on, and now it is a relic. Stuck in a time long passed, it's only residents the lowest of the low or the highest of the high; no middle ground in Sin City, not anymore. This is where you came to escape on the weekends, this is where you came to escape the law, and it's where you came when you had nowhere else to go.

It's easy to disappear in New York City - especially for a guy like me. At the click of a button and with a few rushed out words I can have a new identity and a new place to stay; nobody can find me, not even if they tried.

Of course, it isn't so simple as just giving me a new apartment - even in a city so devious as this one, I'm made to wait. Stewing in purgatory, tacking my life onto another's for the month while my new identity comes to life elsewhere. At least Vanessa is nice, one of the only friends I can truly call 'friend' in this city - one of the only people I trust fully. One of two, actually.

"You know we still have to work tonight, right?" Vanessa says, her sultry voice floating to me from the bathroom as she watches me in the mirror. I smirk, stretching out further on her - very comfortable - suede arm chair.

"I'm aware." I respond, removing my shoes from her upholstery at her glare.

"Good, you owe me for being caught!"

"It isn't my fault the Feds have been on my case ever since that lawyer bloke approached me in the street - broad daylight!" I bite out. "Bellend." A thousand times I've let it be known how annoyed I am. You're not supposed to talk about the Octopus, you don't acknowledge it - and when you're approached in the street by the one guy who didn't get the memo, and forced to give up pay to lie low, it's infuriating.

It suck keeping a low profile.

"I do not understand your English words!" Vanessa laughs, her dark lipstick contrasting beautifully with her exotic Mediterranean skin tone. Vanessa isn't her real name, but then again, not many of us use our real names anymore - I'm the exception, I'm not ashamed of my coworkers knowing who I am, only when it came to legalities did I ever use another name, any name I was given by the boss.

"I called him a dickhead." I explain to her.

"You are correct - he had tiny penis too!"

I laugh freely. "You're damn right! I barely felt it, had to fake a limp the next day."

Vanessa doesn't laugh, but her eyes sparkle at me through the reflection in the mirror. "Are you working with anyone tonight?"

"Nah, I got a job on my own babes, I think they're tryna keep me out of as much trouble as possible." I reply, readjusting the leather pants I'm wearing that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Don't really know what a threesome has to do with trouble, mind you."

Vanessa tuts, applying more mascara to her already perfect lashes. "You are lucky, I work with Jonathan tonight - he makes the terrible noises!"

I snort. "I don't know why they like him - he sounds like he's dying." I pause. "Oh! Ow yes! Yeees! UghmyGOD!"

Vanessa does laugh this time, joining in on my impersonation with a very convincing dying monkey sound.

"Breathy moans are where it's at - really gets them going." I say offhandedly, flicking a start piece of fluff off my pants.

"Crying too." She supplies.

I click my fingers, smirking at her in the mirror. "Only if you're subbing."

She laughs again.

"I do not take dominatrix very often." She explains with a pout, then shrugs. "I guess they like seeing me all tied up." I laugh, and shake my head but give no reply as she finishes up in the bathroom, coming over to stand directly in front of me. "How do I look, Daniel?"

I purse my lips, pretending to consider as I look my gorgeous friend over. She's dressed in leather, as we always are, and the cut outs in her dress on her back tease without giving away too much, the slither of perfectly tanned skin between her thigh high boots and teeny mini-skirt would have been enticing to anyone who isn't me - I can get it up for girls who pay, doesn't mean I'm into it though.

It's all in the job description.

"Hot - like a tease, you're going to be spanked tonight, girl."

Vanessa smirks. "That is the idea, that's why I wore waterproof mascara."

"Oh you beautiful whore." I say, laughing.

Vanessa pouts. "Would you fuck me, Daniel?"

I know she's joking, and I can barely contain my laughter as I say. "Honey, we've had sex before - remember? That one guy with the fetish, and that younger one who was clearly in denial about liking my penis more than your vagina." I pause, allowing a cocky grin to swim onto my face before adding, "and besides, I only fuck girls who pay me."

Vanessa smirks, grabbing her purse as she checks her hair once more in the mirror by the front door. I stand, ready to follow her to the car waiting outside to take us to our location for the night. "I would pay you, if I didn't know where you'd been."

"Ouch." I say, as she locks the door to her apartment behind us. "That hurts, Ness."

-meanwhile-

Phil wakes up eventually. He finds himself in a nondescript room with plain blue walls and darker blue carpet - there is a bed, a chair, and one small window.

Phil goes there first, and sees he has not been taken too far out of the city, perhaps he's somewhere in Brooklyn.

He checks himself over next, noting the residual stiffness in his neck from where he'd been drugged, but other than that he feels nothing. He moves back over to the bed, crossing his legs and shuffling backwards so that his back hits the wall and he is facing the door - he has no doubt they're watching him, waiting for him to wake up before they interrogate him; there is a large mirror on the wall by the door and he knows, even if just from how many movies he's watched, that it is a two-way.

Just as he thought, not long after he wakes up the door is open - there is no click of a lock, and so Phil realises he hadn't been locked in. The man who enters is the same man who had taken him from his home, and he says nothing as he picks up the chair from the corner of the room and moves it closer to Phil's bed - a pile of clothing is tucked under his arm not carrying the chair, and he places then on the corner of the bed before taking a seat. He gestures to the clothes wordlessly, but Phil doesn't move from his curled up position. The man shrugs.

"Hello." He says, his orotund voice seeming far too loud in the quiet room. Phil says nothing. "I realise this may be stressful for you, we haven't had much of a chance to explain things, but you're safe."

Phil nods wordlessly, not allowing himself to trust the man so soon after he had drugged him - or told had someone drug him - and kidnapped him. The man sighs, rubbing his temple tiredly.

"Where am I?" Phil says eventually, the need to know overpowering his will to be quiet.

"A safe house - after what happened, you couldn't stay in your apartment anymore. They would have found you eventually."

Phil's head spins with the man's words, confusion and fear and complete disbelief warring in his mind. "What do you mean 'they'? Was the mugger a part of some gang or something? They were looking for me?"

"Not necessarily." The man hedges, eyeing Phil critically. Phil thought he would continue, but he just continues watching him with his dark eyes, calculating and considering.

Phil can't take the silence, never could stand the awkwardness - especially when being stared at so closely - so he turns away and asks, "who are you?" As if it's important right now.

The man pauses before saying, "my name is Agent Reed Armitage, and I've been assigned to protect you."

Phil's patience snaps, the panic and confusion becoming too much for him. "From what?!" Agent Armitage looks surprised by Phil's outburst, but he isn't about to stop there - you can't just go around abdicating people and calling it 'safety'. "You keep saying things like "you're safe" and "they can't find you" but you won't tell me what that means! I was shot and I have no scar, the bullet just pushed itself right back out and there was blood but I wasn't dead and I got home and then I was drugged and kidnapped and I woke up here and I have no idea what the fuck is going on and I want you to tell me right now!"

Phil breaths deeply, his chest heaving from the weight of his outburst. He feels better, marginally, but he still feels so confused - still scared and lost and angry and sitting in the corner of a strange blue room with a guy who some hours who had drugged him and now was acting 'good cop'. In a city like New York, and at a time like this, nothing is ever as it seems. Armitage could be a fraud, looking to hurt Phil, harvest his organs and sell them on the black market - could mean to butter him up and sell him as a slave to some Guatemalan dignitary. 

Why him? Is this a joke? A prank? Is he going to die horribly?

Agent Armitage smiles - not unkindly, but there's something sinister in the way his lips stretch too thin and his cheeks widen just a fraction too much. "Feel better?" Without waiting for an affirmation (or the opposite in Phil's case), he continued. "I will explain everything to you but first I need you to agree that you will work with us."

"I don't even know what you want from me." Phil whispers, mind still caught on the whole organ trafficking thing. He's getting dangerously close to another breakdown.

"Only your cooperation; you're special Phil, and the CIA need you." Armitage reaches into his pocket and, slowly once he notices the way Phil tenses, passes over a badge for him to inspect. It seems pretty legit, Armitage's full name and everything printed next to a picture on a card next to a shiny badge saying CIA.

Phil swallows the lump that had settled in his throat, he can't exactly say no to a CIA agent -who knows what would happen to him then? So he nods, desperate for the explanation he was been promised.

"Excellent." The man claps his large hands together, grinning in a way that sets Phil's nerves on edge. If he could shrink any further into the wall, he certainly would. "You may have noticed that you have certain... Abilities-" Phil snorts condescendingly. No shit. "You aren't the only one."

Now this is news. "I'm not?" He exclaims, leaning forwards slightly.

Armitage shakes his head, his expression turning unreadable. If this guy doesn't already play poker, he certainly should. "There is one other - every couple thousand years or so there are two people with these abilities - and they must meet."

"Where is this other person?" Phil asks, a million other questions swirling in his head. 'Must'? Must' like they really should probably meet one day, or 'must' like fate has already decided they will meet and so they shall 'must'?

"We do not know, but I would assume he or she is close - the two of you have a connection that draws you to the other."

Phil's beginning to catch on - but so far this explanation has made the situation more confusing rather than shedding light on anything other than - "You want me to find them, right?" He doesn't know why this makes him nervous, why he is suddenly filled with the need to run away. A nod from Armitage confirms his guess. "Why?"

Armitage takes a deep breath, resting his elbows on his knees and watching Phil intently. He looks like the bachelor uncle at a family gathering who drew the short straw for who entertains the children - an overlarge man folded into a child's stool who really doesn't like kids and now has to tell them a story. Phil feels like a child next to him, his patronising gaze burning holes into his pride - and Phil is tall too for God's sake! "There is a prophecy..." He pauses, and then recites from memory, as if he had spent days or years slaving over the case - and he probably had. "Two souls with a power beyond all else shall meet in the thirty-third year of a millennium and the world shall bow at their feet - they shall behold the power to destroy or create as they see fit and no force can stop them once they are found to one another."

"And you're saying I'm one of these people?" Phil asks incredulously, and maybe a little bit hysterically.

The other man ignores his question. "A lot of the time the prophesied are never found, many times they are killed before we can get to them - only once before have the Two even come close to fulfilling the prophecy."

"Killed?" Phil repeats, remembering the words from earlier. You're safe, they haven't found you. "Who else is looking for us."

"They call themselves the Romans."

"Like the people who killed Jesus?" Phil almost laughs, but the intense look Armitage eyeballs him with stops the sound before it can bubble up his throat. "Shut up."

"Precisely the people who killed Jesus."

Phil shakes his head. "Okay, God, I can get behind - you know an intangible force beyond our human understanding, sure thing - maybe - but Jesus? He's just a story! Jesus wasn't real."

"Wasn't he?"

"Are you trying to tell me that Jesus was one of - whatever I'm supposed to be?!"

Armitage nods casually, like it isn't crazy that the actual Christ is some sort of prior incarnation of whatever Phil is supposed to be in this prophecy. "The first actually."

Phil pauses, nodding, and then laughs. Tears spring to his eyes and he laughs like a drunkard - or a madman - this is stupid. "Is this a joke?!" He shouts, leaping up from the bed to knock on the two way mirror. "Am I being filmed?" He slams his hands against the class and snarls, "am I putting on a good show?" He yells to his own reflection, slapping the glass once more before whirling on the 'Agent' watching him calmly.

"Let me out." He growls, the rage simmering under his skin like hot oil.

"I think you should calm down." And wasn't that just infuriating! The man had the nerve to speak to him condescendingly, like a bloody child. Phil is sick of feeling like a child around this man - this stranger - who is possibly the craziest person Phil has ever had the misfortune of encountering (and Phil had encountered a lot of crazies in his time, even before he moved to the City lovingly known for its abundance of crazy people).

"This is ridiculous and you're telling me to calm down?"

"You think this is a joke?" The agent shouts suddenly, causing Phil to flinch. "You survived being shot, I could throw you out of that window right now and you wouldn't even feel a thing - explain that."

Phil can't - that's the tick, everything the man has said has been absolutely fucking bonkers, it hasn't made a lick of sense, but the nothing about this had. The laws of nature says that if a person gets shot in the stomach, at best, they are wounded, and Phil is fine. Nothing about that makes sense either - so what is sense anymore? He sits back down on the bed, instantly deflating.

"Exactly."

Armitage stands, and says not one single word as he leaves, the door left unlocked behind him.

-

Phil decides later (after hesitantly pulling on the clothes he had been left, only to find they were his own from home) that he can't stay in the tiny blue room anymore, he doesn't want to risk the door, the unshakeable feeling that he's being tested keeping him from turning the handle - that, and the risk of being dropped is just too high - Armitage had been the one to say he could survive a fall from a window and, besides, the window isn't that high up; third story at most, and the path down below is completely deserted.

Phil opens the window, shooting a concerned glance at the two way mirror - if they stop him now, he doesn't know what he'll do. But he has to get out.

Nobody stops him.

Phil looks down, feeling a sudden jolt of fear at the sheer height of the drop he'll face if - when - he jumps. He can't back out now; he has to test it - see if they're right about this... About him.

What does he have left to lose?

If they realise he isn't who they're looking for, they'll surely kill him to keep the secret - and if he is who they're looking for? Well then, he'll survive. Jumping and dying won't change a thing, and jumping and surviving won't either - at least, that's what he tells himself as he resolutely trains his eyes on the stained brick building opposite rather than the scarily solid ground below him.

Phil shifts on the window sill, slipping his feet over the ledge - he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and let's himself fall.

He lands on his feet, the impact jarring his bones but not hurting.

He lets out the breath he had been holding, looking back up to the window to make sure he had really jumped - that he isn't hallucinating. He almost cries when he realises they he isn't, that this is really happening.

Phil takes a moment to orient himself, to let the knowledge that he really is... something settle in, and then he takes off - running down the streets with disembodied abandonment, letting himself be lost to the feel of the chill on his bare arms, the short sleeves of his t-shirt doing nothing to protect from the cold. The wind howls in his ears as he weaves in and out of the crowd, touching nobody - not even a nudge.

He feels the power growing in his bones, the confidence in himself increasing with every corner he turns, every street he crosses and doesn't get knocked off his feet by a car. People shout after him, but he pays them no mind - they are insignificant to his freedom.

He feels a buzzing feeling in his head, a warmth in his stomach that grows and grows. He slows down when it begins to be too much, the warmth pooling in his stomach like downing a cup of steaming hot chocolate too fast, the buzzing making him dizzy like the effects of too much alcohol on a Friday night out. Like being drugged.

He breathes in the cool air of another deserted street - Phil has never seen so little people in all the time he has lived in New York but, then again, he has never really been to Brooklyn in all that time either.

He seems to be in a residential area, the buildings surrounding him all soot stained red-brick apartment blocks with boxes of flowers and clothes lines on the rusting metal balconies. The streets are dark now - meaning he's been running for some time - and Phil is very suddenly reminded of the night he was shot; the darkness of the alley and unnatural quiet of the streets, the chills down his spine; at the same time, this feels different - the warmth in his stomach spreading all throughout his body, fighting away the chills, and the faint humming sound of music coming from a building further down the street relaxes the tension in his muscles. He feels transcendent.

Phil squints, noticing something glinting under the glow of a street lamp opposite said house, he moves closer to inspect the object further. Under the dull hue of the yellow lamp, something flat and gold glittered on the pavement, it's surface unmarred by the dirty surroundings; Phil picks it up slowly and inspects it in his hands - it looks like an octopus, a solid gold octopus, and it seems to sing to him almost in the same tune as the music. Phil sways on his feet, then turns towards the building as if in a trance.

He notices immediately the subtle differences between this building and the others. The metal fencing around the balconies is gold, the drapes coving the windows deep red and closed tightly. The red brick seems cleaner almost, though still not entirely unmarred - you can never completely escape the dirt of New York, the filth of the city.

Phil approaches the building, the music growing louder and louder the closer he gets; he pauses on the top step, his eyes immediately finding the strange golden plaque half hidden behind a stem of ivy by the glossy black door - an octopus looked back at him, and as he raises his hand up, he see's that it was exactly the same as the one he had found on the street.

Strange.

Before he can even question what he's doing, Phil had knocked on the door.

He feels slightly awkward as the door is opened by a burly looking bloke, his head shaved and his eyes glaring at Phil suspiciously. Phil decides he had better say something, explain himself, maybe he can pretend that he only wanted to return the obviously expensive gold coin(?) he had found on the street. He holds the thing out awkwardly, unable to speak the words he needs to explain himself.

Before he can even gather his thoughts the door is opened wider and he is ushered inside by feet who would not listen to his brain. The door closes behind him, and Phil feels he had just entered the metaphorical lions den.

"Through there." The burly man grunts, gesturing to the far door at the other end of the corridor.

The music is louder in here, the buzzing feeling in his head being drowned out by the pulsating beat of music he does not recognise. Phil opens the door mechanically, and his mouth drops open.

Men and women of all different branches of life mingle in what looks to be a living room - or a parlour. Some mill about in expensive looking suits, others dressed similarly to Phil in simple jeans and t-shirts and, most shockingly of all, some dressed entirely in leather - entirely, but not altogether fully clothed. As Phil stands, solitary in the doorway, a woman dressed in nothing but panties, high heels, and x-shaped pasties with a mask covering her sharp eyes hands him a drink and winks.

"Welcome to the Octopus." She purrs, voice slithering off her tongue like thick honey.

Phil has no idea what is going on, but his feet seem to as they march him forward against his own better judgement, directly towards a large, red carpeted, grand looking staircase. He downs his drink, placing the glass on a side table as men and women in different states of undress pass him by. He doesn't feel the telltale burn of alcohol, because he's too distracted by the person looking down on him from above, back shrouded in a halo of light from the bright kitchen behind him.

Fuck.

 

-Dan-

 

I love my job, I love the way it feels to be touched by another and to touch another, the way the leather squeaks against sweaty flesh as sinful moans are dragged out of lust drugged mouths.

The boundaries are all but nonexistent. You can sleep with anyone who want to, can sleep with nobody if you so desire, it doesn't matter - the boss gets his money from the entry, you have to pay big money to be a part of the Octopus. Big guy pays his workers wares, and our spending money comes direct from the pockets of our patrons - the better you are, the more generous the tip.

Excellent system.

I know what all of the usuals look like, I know what they like even more.

My regular hadn't showed - not too much of a surprise, most of our regulars are men with a lot of money and a wife or two, sometimes they idiot couldn't make it. That left me free to do as I pleased, I could join in another affair, or help to serve.

But I'm not dealing with a newbie tonight, not after the fiasco my last newbie caused.

Not a chance I'm dealing with that again.

So I serve, promote, I do my job like I's supposed to - like I'm good at.

I watch as Vanessa saunters up the stairs before an older man in an already bedraggled suit, her hips shaking a little more exaggeratedly than usual and the bottom half of her butt cheeks visible from beneath. She winks at me before she disappears on the second floor landing, her heels making no sound on the plush red carpeting.

I down the remainders of the whiskey in my tumbler and head upstairs towards the kitchen where the drinks are kept - I smile my most flirty smile at the men and women who watch me as I pass by; they won't touch me tonight, and I know it as I wink at a particularly overbearing man I know from many previous encounters has a penchant for pain and a scale that runs from young to barely legal.   
I place my empty glass on the counter by the various alcohols we have and breathe, deciding that I won't be needing anymore - if the buzzing feeling in my head is anything to go by.

I take one last deep breath to clear my head before leaving the kitchen, preparing myself to re-enter the party downstairs, and then I falter in my tracks at the sight on the staircase below me.

A man on the stairs in a pale blue t-shirt stares up at me, our eyes locking as his steps fall to a halt mid-step; the man is beautiful, and a strange warmth in my stomach begins to grow - like lust, building with every heavy breath.

The buzzing stops, and everything switches to perfect clarity.

I turn around, keeping my eyes locked on the perfect stranger, and walk in the opposite direction; to the upper levels.

I can hear his feet shuffling along the carpet as he follows me, and I can't help myself from looking back at him - his lips parted, his eyes startled yet determined. He feels familiar but new all at the same time, and I feel alive. Electric.

Breathy moans and sultry cries and angry grunts follow us down the hall from behind the countless closed doors. I open the last one and step inside, waiting for the familiar-strange-new man to close the door behind him.

Then I turn, crowding him up against the door and breathing in the breath from his lips.

"This isn't reality." I whisper, then drop my lips onto his, sucking his bottom lip into my mouth in a desperate attempt to learn his taste. "This is a dream."

"Is it?" The other breathes, and then he pushes me backwards into the bed, his kiss is demanding and powerful.

He is forceful as he straddles my legs, locking my hands above my head on the bedsheets. I groan, biting down hard on my lip as his mouth ghosts across my torso, his wam breath leaving goosebumps on my exposed flesh. Then he lets go with a hard squeeze, telling me to keep still, and yanks the button of my pants open.

I obey his silent command with a light gasp, eyes trained on his face as he steps backwards to look me over - I know how I look, and I can't help playing it up a little with a slight wiggle of my hips. The dark haired man is on me again, his hands gripping my thighs like vices as he leans over me, he is still fully clothed, and I want desperately for him to not be.

As if hearing my thoughts, the man all but rips off his t-shirt and leans down so our torsos are pressed together, his nose ghosts over my chin and I pant, aching with a lust I had never felt before - never once in my line of work had I been so affected by another; it feels good not to have to fake it. His hands wind themselves in my hair, pulling my head backwards so my throat is bared, and I barley have time to collect myself before his mouth latches onto the point just bellow my chin, just above my Adam's apple. I groan deep in my throat, arching against him to find some purchase - my hands stay where they are supposed to, fingers fisting helplessly in the pure white sheets as his teeth scrape against my skin.

I yell as he grinds himself against me, and almost weep when he pulls away completely. I feel wrecked, my cock hard in my pants and almost completely spent without even taking it out.

I watch through lidded eyes as the man I don't even know the name of rids himself of his socks and shoes, then his jeans join the rest of his clothes on the floor and the hard line of his member is left straining against the flimsy boxers. He crouches down in front of me, tapping my leg to let me know I can move. I sit up and, seeing his inquisitive stare, I nod my consent, lifting my hips obediently when he begins to remove the restricting leather trousers.

I'm left in nothing, completely bare in front of a man I don't even know the name of, a man I had never seen before but felt like I knew. I don't know how he got in, and I don't particularly care as I watch him undress the rest of the way, his tall and lean body stretching, his pale skin almost glowing in the limited lighting of the room.

He rises up to his full height in front of me as I stare up at him from the bed, my hands on his thighs and his in my hair. I lick my lips as he watches me, inching my head closer to where I know he wants it to be, he groans as my lips grazeover the tip, and then the shaft - long but not too thick - until the side of my face is pressed flush against the very top of his leg, my mouth grazing the dark hairs around the base of his penis.

I move back up, watching his face the whole time, and then finally take him into my mouth. His hands fist back into my hair and he pushes me forward all the way, forcing himself down my throat. I hum appreciatively, enjoying the slight burn of the pressure - I tap his thigh when it becomes too much, and he lets me go with a satisfied sigh. His strong hand cups my jaw, his thumb running through the saliva dribbling down my chin as I blink away the water pooling in my eyes.

I stand on my own this time, and he lets me. I shoot him a smile as I back away to the drawer by the head of the bed, turning to collect the contents and to give him a peek of what I have - what he needs. 

His arms snake around my waist, his lips planting firm kisses on the back of my neck as his fingers slither over my skin, I place the lube on the table and hold his roaming hands in my own, pressing the condom into his palm and closing his fingers around it.

"Put it on." I whisper, and then I leave his embrace to lie back on the bed, waiting and ready.

It doesn't take him long, and soon he is over me again, his slick fingers pressing into me with abandon. I sigh out my pleasure, letting my eyes close and my back arch.

I hear him groan as he adds another finger - making it three. I wince a little but it doesn't hurt - I've had much worse. I raise my hips, and I can't stop the whimper from leaving my throat as his fingers brush against my spot just right.

"Please." I whisper, knowing they love it when I beg. "Please."

His fingers leave me, and I moan at what is to come. I feel him against me, open my eyes and see him above me, hands planted firmly on either side of my head. I reach up as he pushes in, nails digging into the skin of his back as he pulls out and pushes back in with a grunt.

He fucks like he kisses - demanding and without second thought - and I love it. I feel myself smiling as he fucks me without restraint, and I gasp in pleasure when he finds the spot once again, tears trickling down the side of my face.

I come first, but he isn't far behind, coming with a drawn out groan as his hips stutter.

My head spins as I collapse on the bed, I feel drunk and high and dizzy, I feel hot and cold and a little bit like I might be dying. I roll over, seeing the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and I brush it away in a rare show of sentiment, he smiles at me, but I can see in his eyes that he feels it too - feels how odd this is.

How wrong, but how right.

For the first time in a long time, I fall asleep pressed against another's body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally see Vanessa as being played by Sofia Boutella and Agent Armitage by Laurence Fishburne.
> 
> I'm also in love with Dan's cheekiness here - and does anyone really think it's the Feds who broke into Dan's apartment? I don't - but that might just be because I decide who broke into his apartment ;)
> 
> As for the completely ooc sex scene here - that was the influence of the bond. Phil isn't always going to be quite so forward and sure of himself. At least, not at the start.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER IS 6000 WORDS I HATE MYSELF BYE


	3. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been to New York once in my life and won't be returning until September so all of my knowledge of the city comes from (very vague) memory, Gossip Girl, and good ole Google. If you're from New York and my complete butchery of the city - geographical or other - offends you then please mention it kindly (and with suggestions) in the comments. Please don't kill me ty

Phil wakes and the thrumming in his bones has stopped - blessed peace overwhelms his exhausted body and he sags into the beautifully silken bedsheets. 

He feels better than he has in years, like something inside of his head just clicked into place - and then he remembers why. 

Phil doesn't move, assessing his surroundings from where he is; the room is dark, and the music has stopped, but there is definitely somebody lying behind him - so the man hasn't left. An odd feeling of relief flushes through him and he relaxes once more, though, he doesn't understand why. Last night scares him, it feels like a dream, like he wasn't completely there at the time. 

But he was. 

He remembers perfectly how, in that moment, something had overcome him - the music had been too strong, the sounds vibrating the floors and oozing around his ears sluggishly. He had seen him at the top of the staircase, in nothing but a pair of tightly fitting leather pants, and he had been gone. He felt like he knew him, but he didn't. He felt right, and it had felt great. 

But now it just feels like confusion. 

The man next to him stirs, and then stiffens. He doesn't know Phil is awake, so when he all but bolts from the bed and stands in the room - his breaths heavy and audible in the near silent room - Phil doesn't move. 

He hears the footsteps on the carpet, shuffling with as much haste as possible while still trying to keep quiet. He hears the sound of leather pants being pulled on with practiced ease that would be impossible to achieve of you were anyone else. 

Then he hears the footsteps fading, they're not yet to the door, and Phil finds he can't let this go - not yet. He sits up. 

"Who are you?" He asks, because it's the only thing he can think of to say that would make him stay. 

The man pauses, and Phil realises that he's young - not under aged, but certainly young. His hair is a mess, and he looks just as conflicted as Phil feels confused - perhaps even more so. 

"Dan." The other one, Dan, says at last. His voice is unbelievably steady for someone who looks so wrecked. "My name is Dan - you can leave whenever. Maybe sooner rather than later, it'll be light out soon." And then he is gone, the dismissal of his words plain as day to the boy still sitting, fully naked, on the sex stained bed. 

-

Phil walks home in a state of complete confusion, his hair is falling into his face every time he tries to sweep it back, eventually he just gives up on it all together. He doesn't understand why last night happened - he isn't like that! He had never done anything like it before - sure, he'd slept around a bit but never so suddenly. Never with a complete stranger.

But is he a stranger?

Phil feels like Dan might as well have been his friend for years; he feels like he knows everything about him without actually knowing him. He feels love, devotion, loyalty, protectiveness. He feels for him. He knows nothing about his past, or much of anything of his present besides the painfully obvious - whatever that place was last night, Dan was not there for free. 

But he knows Dan. 

It hurts his head to think about, so he keeps walking. He keeps ignoring the early risers around him; the workers, the joggers, the tourists wanting to get a head start in the crowds. You can never avoid a crowd in New York City. 

Phil is halfway to his flat - and who knows how he managed to navigate himself from wherever the hell he was in Brooklyn all the way back home - when he realises that he can't go back. He's - potentially - in danger if he goes back. 

He has to find Agent Armitage and ask him more about whatever this prophecy is; he needs to know if Dan is his other person. 

He stops in his tracks, a flare of worry so sudden making him blink in surprise and apologise as he causes a woman to bump into him from behind. He can't tell them about Dan - he doesn't know why, he just can't. 

A car pulls up beside him suddenly, all black and tinted windows just like in the movies. The window rolls down and Agent Armitage raises his eyebrow at him over a pair of dark aviators - cliche after cliche. 

"Get in, Phil." The man says, and Phil obeys because what else can he do? He needs to protect Dan, make sure nobody finds him, and he can do that by pretending to find him. Pretending he doesn't know who he is. 

Work with the enemy. 

And since when did he start seeing the CIA as his enemy?

 

-meanwhile-

 

I fucked up. Badly. 

"Vanessa, you don't understand." I whine. "I wanted to sleep with him."

"I still do not see what is the problem here - you sleep with many people." Vanessa says, shrugging passively as she pours herself a shot of whiskey into her morning coffee. 

"It was like I was possessed or something." I continue, ignoring her. "I didn't even get paid."

"Now that is weird - why didn't you ask him to pay you? Silly boy." 

I falter, floundering over the answer on the tip of my tongue, because I know what it is - and it isn't possible. "I didn't want him to." I say anyway, spitting the truth out from between clenched teeth. "I slept with a really hot guy I don't know the name of on my work night because I wanted to." 

A mug of coffee is pressed into my hands, and I sniff it to make sure she hasn't spiked me; I don't care what anyone says, I may be a male prostitute and have definitely made some questionable life choices, but drinking before noon is not one of them - after noon, however, games on. 

Satisfied she hasn't poured any kind of alcoholic beverage or narcotic of the sort into my morning coffee, I take a long sip and sigh. "You make good coffee." 

"I am Algerian." 

"They make good coffee there?" I ask.

"I do not know, I left when I was young and innocent."

I laugh. "I can't see you ever being innocent. Sure you didn't come out of the womb sucking dick?"

She grins, raising her free hand into the air mockingly, and says "I am a slut since birth - shoot me!" 

"You really do know how to cheer me up, Nessa." 

She shrugs. "I'm Algerian."

"Are you going to say that every time I say something nice about you?" 

She shrugs again. "Yes." Then she grins. "So tell me more about this man you fucked."

I hold the steaming cup of half drunk coffee in my hands and frown down at the swirling contents. "He was hot." 

She takes a slow sip, waiting, watching me over the rim of her mug. "You have said."

I sigh, giving in. "Okay, it was weird. Like, I was completely fine - totally in control! I went to the kitchen because the alcohol was hitting a bit too hard for some reason, and then when I walked out I saw him and it was like I just-" I pause, not really knowing how to end that sentence. "It felt like it was the only thing left to do - like if I didn't sleep with him then and there I would never be whole again." 

"Sounds crazy." She mumbles, but I'm not really paying attention to her anymore, because my description still isn't right; it isn't that I had to sleep with the guy, I had to know the guy - I feel like he know him mentally and somewhere my fucked up brain had turned this sudden connection into lust. 

"Fucking crazy." I agree distractedly, taking another sip from the now tasteless coffee. 

"Is there anything else?" Her voice snaps me out of my thoughts, back to reality. 

"Hm?" 

"Anything else, about him maybe, you can tell me?" 

About him? I'm suddenly flustered - how do you describe a person you've just met who you feel like you've known your whole life, who isn't your usual type of random fuck, and who completely and utterly baffles you with how much you need to be near them. Constantly. "He had black hair - dyed, probably - and bright blue eyes that really shouldn't be that blue like it's just ridiculous." She smirks and I blush but continue, ignoring her raised eyebrows. "Kind of lanky, but not too skinny - just sort of there, like, nothing too extremely fit but it was nice. His nose is weird but it suits his face perfectly like fuck how can someone look like that?" 

"I want to meet him, I have decided."

The sound I make when she says that is most definitely not human - maybe not even of this planet. "No!" I splutter, more taken aback by my own unabashed demurral than anything else. 

She pouts. "Why not?"

I open my mouth, the words 'because I need to keep him safe' on the tip of my tongue before realising how that sounds - how ridiculous. "Because he's my stranger, not yours." I say instead, then I smile playfully and add "get your own" for good measure, but we both know I'm lying. 

Lying to her face, my closest friend, all to keep a guy 'safe'. A guy I slept with - when it's my job to sleep with people. A guy I don't even know the name of but gave my real name freely, a name only my coworkers know - and even then, not all of them do. 

I'm going insane, I decide. Completely fucking insane - but I don't say anything about that. Instead, like the coward I am, I change the subject. 

"He kind of reminded me of the type of guy who would work in a library - innocent looking on the outside but kinky as shit behind closed doors."

Vanessa eyeballs me for a moment, obviously reading the distraction for what it is, but she lets it go because, unlike me, she's actually a good friend. "And I bet you would be willing to go through with this 'kinky shit' behind any closed door, yes?"

I laugh, it sounds hollow even to my ears, but it's close enough to a genuine laugh that she doesn't notice. "I'd be up for it with the doors open if that's what he wanted from me."

Shit. 

It's true.

-

The thing about my job is that it brings in a lot of cash. 

The big man, Agamemnon we call him, earns a shit ton because the clients pay him for membership. Every week, sometimes more, a shining gold octopus about the size of a palm is delivered through the letterbox of anyone who pays up a monthly fee of 5,000$ USD along with a note with an address. The clientele for the Octopus is wide: regulars with far too much money on their hands, one timers looking for a fun night, gaudy couples looking for some extra fun - in general, the man makes upwards of 100,000$ USD a month, and from that each 'staff' member is paid a set salary of 1,000$ USD a month. Our homes, rent, and general living expenses are all paid for by the company - leaving the money to be spent however we liked. 

A lot is spent on clothing - after all, you have to look good to attract the richer clientele - and anything else we might need for the job (the good sex toys aren't cheap, and sharing is strictly inhibited). Having the best things, means having the best tips. 

The rules of the job are even better: number one, don't tell anyone about it. Don't talk about the Octopus in public, don't share locations with anyone who asks you, and most certainly don't talk to the police. The reason being is, that the Octopus doesn't only deal in sex work - there are drugs, illegal contraband, weapons, smuggling, and a whole load of fraud. Illegality is a virtue in the Octopus, and secrecy is your best friend. This rule, obviously, applies to all with knowledge of the club; workers and partners alike. 

Rule number two, also applying to anybody involved, is no STDs. In my time working for Agamemnon, I had seen many people sacked for STDs - the lucky thing? Ex-workers get a secrecy payment and a "go anywhere free ticket" to start again somewhere new. The unlucky thing? A lot of ex-prostitutes don't make it very long on their own for one reason or another; addiction drags them down the rabbit hole, homelessness creeps up on them, old grudges reap vengeance when there's no security bubble protecting them. 

My line of work is not a safe one, but it never concerned me before and it certainly won't now. 

Those rules are the only rules. I can do what I want when I'm not working - just as long as I don't draw the wrong sort of attention to myself. I'm not obligated to be loyal to my boss like most, I can sleep with who I want and when I want. It's all very lax. 

And I love it.

The misconception with sex-work is that the media and movies portray it as something only desperate people do; they ignore the people like me, the people like Vanessa and even Jonathan who actually want to do it. There are those who enjoy sex, who actually enjoy the in-complexity of sleeping with strangers and earning money for it. 

It isn't slutty to make a living doing something I enjoy. 

And I hate being looked down upon for it.

Especially when in a club, and the looks are coming from under aged drinkers, alcoholics on the run from their disapproving families, and people who would gladly pay for my services - if they could afford it. 

"Dan, dance with me!" 

I shake my head, smiling apologetically at the pouting boy in front of me. As much as we make fun of Jonathan, he isn't a terrible person - extremely annoying and pushy - but he has a good heart. 

"Why not?" He whines - I grin through the familiar twinge of annoyance and guilt that comes with every conversation I've ever had with Jonathan. "You never dance with me!"

I take a sip of my drink, some fruity concoction I had been handed by our friend, Allie, as soon as Nessa and I sat down in the club. Work nights out were always interesting, whether it be because someone always starts a fight with Jonathan and the boy - being completely oblivious to everything ever - doesn't have the sense to leave before a fist hits his face. Or it could be because of the sheer amount of obviously under-aged kids ogling my female coworkers and glaring daggers at my male coworkers for getting to grind with them.

Today seemed like the second kind of day. 

"Maybe because I don't dance with people who don't pay me." I tease, shouting slightly over the pounding music. 

"I could pay you, Danny."

I laugh. "There isn't enough money in the world you could pay me to dance with you." I take his hand anyway, giving in to the beat of the music and hype of the crowd. 

It's always fun sexually frustrating people who could never get it. 

Vanessa joins us somewhere in the middle of a slower song with a heavy bass, coming between us so she is chest to chest with me and back to chest with Jonathan - much to the envious looks of many a desperate clubber. 

They ought to know they could never get Vanessa, surely the over the knee Louboutin boots were enough of a give away for that one. 

"Can we--" Vanessa shouts, her words lost behind a sudden cheer from the bar as the bartender - supposedly - performs some simple but cool looking trick. 

"What?!" I shout, moving in closer to hear her. 

"Can we go outside?" I look at her and she waves a cigarette in front of my face, I nod and we apologise to Jonathan who, by now, seems almost too drunk to care he's loosing both his dance partners. 

The air outside is cold against my bare arms and I suddenly wish I had brought a jacket. I shove my hands in my jean pockets as she lights up but I soon realise I had left my cigarettes at home in my haste. Vanessa hands me one from her pack with a raised eyebrow, and I laugh as she stuffs the somewhat squashed box back into her bra. 

"Thanks for your boob smokes, Nessa."

"If you do not want it-"

"Nessa we've had sex multiple times and I've even had more than your boob sweat in my mouth, I really couldn't care less about where this cigarette has been."

She laughs, presumably remembering the same guys I am - the one's with the very questionable kinks but plenty of money. Then she pulls a lighter out of her bra too, lighting her own before holding the tip against mine to light it too. 

I take a drag and blow the smoke out of my nose, leaning against the wall and ignoring the chill of the grey stone through my thin shirt.

"Do you ever think about leaving, Ness?" I ask, watching the street in front of us so I don't have to look at her face. 

"Leave?" She asks. "Where would you go?"

I shrug. "It's not like I've never left with nowhere to go before, how do you think I got here?"

"You never actually told me why you moved here."

"Neither did you." I shoot back defensively, then take anther drag of the cigarette. "I moved here because my dad was a prick."

"Mine too."

It's silent for a while, then she speaks again. 

"Where would you go if you left?"

I think about it for a moment, but there's only really one place I've ever wanted to go - besides New York. "Seoul."

She nods. "You belong in a city."

"Where would you go?"

She doesn't think. "London."

I shake my head. "If you see my dad, give him a kick in the balls for me."

"I will." She promises, grinning around the end of her cigarette. 

I tap the ash off mine, clearing my throat against the smoky dryness there from the cigarette. I glance around the street; the purple haze constantly present in Times Square, the crowd that never quite disperses, the smell of the late night vendors.

A large dark familiar mass moves in the corner of my eye and my neck cracks as I whip around too fast to catch the man I know I've seen before. There. The strange feeling of wrong begins its incessant niggling at the back of my mind as my bones thrum with adrenaline, telling me to run, to go now and not look back. 

Alarm bells are ringing as I stand frozen, staring at a tall blocky man in a black leather mask - no axe in sight - dark eyes staring right back at me. His mouth is hidden by the mask, but something tells me he's smiling. At me. 

I drop the cigarette, and turn to the girl standing beside me - completely oblivious to my budding fear. "Ness." I whisper. "Ness look behind me, by the church down the street."

Vanessa scowls, but does as I say. "Why would somebody wear that?"

"That's the guy who attacked me!" I whisper-yelled, absolutely refusing to turn around and look. 

Vanessa raises an eyebrow, and looks like she's about to laugh. "A man in cowboy boots and a Trump shirt attacked you? I'm not surprised, he probably wants me deported and you in a homosexual correction camp."

Once again, my neck ticks as I whip around to look and, sure enough, creepy mask guy is nowhere to be seen and the only bloke anywhere near the church is some hick who thinks it's his God given right to carry a gun while walking his dog. Americans. 

I turn back to her, the panic beginning to seep away and my heart rate declining. I laugh.

"Let's go back inside." She suggests, and I nod. 

I look behind me once more as we enter back into the club - using our VIP passes, much to the annoyance of the small crowd outside - and if there's a man in a mask hiding somewhere in the shadows, I don't see him.

 

-Phil-

 

"We think we found the other half of your prophecy, Phil."

Phil blinks, so soon? "I'm sorry, what?"

Armitage raises an eyebrow like he's asking if he should spell it out or write it down, and Phil resolutely decides to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the duration of whatever speech Armitage has planned. They hadn't talked about Phil's stint yesterday, and the tension runs like a wire. Armitage looks pleased with Phil's silence, and he leans backwards in his chair as he throws a green folder with "CLASSIFIED" stamped across it in fading red ink onto the metal table between them. 

The room they're in is small, there are bars on the window - probably to stop people from jumping out of them - and the mirror covering the length of one wall is most definitely two way. Phil doesn't immediately pick up the folder, he feels scared - of what, he isn't sure? Is he more scared of opening it and seeing Dan's young face staring back at him, or opening it and seeing a stranger. 

Armitage sighs, and then the choice is taken from him as the man reaches across the table in his impatience and flicks open the folder. Phil barely manages to hide a flinch and prolongs having to look by pretending to be scrutinising the three way mirror. He meant to protect Dan, if this is him then he's failed because they found him. They were never supposed to find him. They already had Phil in their grubby hands and now they could have Dan too. Phil looks at the file, because Armitage has started to tap his shoes impatiently against the table leg, and Phil's neck is starting to ache from the strain of twisting to look at a mirror he already knows is two way, and there is no picture of Dan. At least, not a clear one. 

The picture in the file appears to be a still taken from a grainy - but still undoubtedly high-end - CCTV camera. It is black and white and has more pixels in it than a YouTube video from 2007, and Dan's face is in the shadow, but Phil can tell its him by the simple way he stands - poised and ready to run, slightly crouched like he'd just landed from a jump and completely naked from the waist up. If Phil hadn't already met him, he doubted he'd have recognised him. 

"We don't know much, but we picked up a video from CCTV footage from the Flatiron District-" he pulls a black tablet out of nowhere, taps the screen a few times, and then slides the thing over the table, "-take a watch."

Phil doesn't hesitate, his heart rate steadily decreasing from the admittance of we don't know much. 

The video has no sound and has a fuzzy sort of quality to it, but the image is clear as a large man dressed in a black suit with what seems to be a leather ski mask over his head walks towards a set of clear glass doors. The man pauses by the door to enter a code, and as he does so Phil notices something held in his hand - a bat? No, an axe! The shiny metal head glints when the light from inside the building hits it, and Phil feels his chest tighten as the man seemingly enters the code correctly and enters without a hitch. The camera is angled in such a way that Phil is able to see as a few pairs of legs - presumably security staff - turn towards the man and then immediately scatter away. Something doesn't sit right with this, and when nothing happens for another couple of minutes Phil begins to wonder about what exactly he's supposed to be looking for; he squints at the screen and sees that the time stamp on the bottom right hand corner reads 01:59 10/17/2033 but there is nothing else to be said about the video. 

Everything is still.

"Keep watching." Armitage's voice is low, contemplative, and Phil feels like he's missing something. 

And then, just as the time stamp changes to 2:27 on the screen, someone else appears. 

It's Dan.

It has to be.

The young man in the video is wearing a leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, his jeans are slung low on his hips and his hair is a mess - even the blurry CCTV image can't hide the obvious sex hair the boy is sporting. Phil feels an irrational spurt of jealousy at that, but it's gone as soon as Dan disappears into the building, the glass door closing behind him - like a death sentence. 

No security guards come forward, and Phil watches as Dan's feet disappear from view of the camera with a cocktail of dread and apprehension swirling through his veins. 

The time stamp skips then, a little more than an hour after Dan first entered his building he is back on the street, falling back into the screen in a spray of glass. 

Phil's eyes widen as Dan, hair now slightly curled at the ends and wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants and Vans and carrying a backpack haphazardly slung over one shoulder, hits the ground - the camera has no microphone, but Phil can only imagine the sound of Dan's body making contact with the floor, glass shattering all around him. Dan crouches as he lands, the backpack falls from his shoulder as his hands hit the floor, and then he is standing. His bare chest heaves as he looks up, wiping pieces of glass from his palms - but no blood. 

Dan knows about his power - either that, or he was desperate enough in that moment to jump from whatever floor he lived on. 

But he had a bag. Phil's mind whispers. He was running. 

Who from? 

Phil almost misses it as his other half picks up his bag and walks away, seemingly uncaring of the fact he had just jumped from - what seemed to be - a top story window. 

Minutes later, the man in the mask walks out of the building, inspects the glass on the floor, and then leaves in the other direction. 

The video ends, but Phil stays staring at the tablet in front of him until Armitage pulls it away. 

Suspicion runs through Phil's veins. Dan had been running from someone, a masked man presumably sent to kill him - but who was it? It could have been Armitage himself, he certainly had a similar build to the stocky man in the CCTV feed. Are the CIA just using him? Using him to find Dan so they can dispose of them? 

Phil shakes his head - hating the distrust that is slowly brewing inside himself. He had always been the trusting one in his family, before, always the one to help a friend, keep a secret, and rely on the government and the law and the politicians to run his life for him. He's never been one to scrutinise and criticise and dwell on hostility. 

Never before now had he been so aware of hidden agendas and double meanings. 

He knows now, everybody has them. Even him. 

"My team looked into it but not much came up; the building is a high-end, pay-through-the-roof, kind of place and the name on the apartment we found with the broken window was Jamie Dean - obviously a fake name -"  
Phil suppresses a snort "-no leads on the man in black as of yet, but my guess is we're dealing with the Romans."

Phil blanches at that, having completely forgotten about the alternate faction hunting their heads that very moment. "You mean, these people wanting to kill us could have already found him?" 

He knows they haven't found Dan since then - he had been with him last night after all, but they know who he is and Phil can't protect him from that - and he can't account for today, though, a feeling at the back of his mind tells him Dan is fine, like an afterthought, only there when you focus on it. Phil can't hide the worry in his voice apparently, and Armitage shoots him a knowing but not suspicious glance, completely misreading Phil's concerns. "They haven't killed him - we'd know if they had."

Phil is almost too afraid to ask. "How?"

Armitage doesn't grimace, but his eyebrows twitch in a way that suggests he wants to. "He dies, you die."

Of course, that would happen. Super secret prophecy, mystical powers, Romans, Jesus, and a death pact dating thousands of years and written in the stars. 

"How do we stop that from happening?" 

"We find him first."

Phil mentally winces, he hadn't wanted this to happen, but Dan in the hands of the CIA with Phil is better than Dan crucified or whatever the Romans will do to him once they catch up to him.

There's no point in telling them he's already met Dan, it was a fluke - and he wouldn't know where to find him now if he tried. So instead, he nods his head and asks, "how?" And reassures himself that he's making the right decisions, for both of them. 

Armitage smiles. 

Phil isn't so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anybody understand the joke behind Dan's fake name? Jamie Dean? James Deen? Haha I'm hilarious.  
> If you don't know who James Deen is and you're under 16 then don't look him up - pro tip. 
> 
> Also, I'm trying to kind of merge their personalities a bit - is that showing through? They're supposed to influence each other and idk if I'm really showing Phil's influence on Dan enough.


	4. Chemical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings! This chapter contains small mentions of past child abuse inflicted on a main character along with current violence and kidnapping (involving non-con drugging) against the same character. Read at your own risk!

Days pass with nothing happening out of the ordinary and the elastic feeling in my gut grows stronger and stronger with every passing moment.

I find it hard to work, the sex doesn't hold the same light it used to - it's dull, tiring rather than exhilarating. I waste the days walking around the city aimlessly, lost in the haze of my brain, completely dissociated from the world happening around me, happening without me.

The haze is stronger today, sitting on a bench in Central Park like I used to do when I first moved here, when I felt lost and alone; a small boy in a big city. I've never felt worse. Plagued with constant worry since the day I spotted my masked attacker outside the club, the invasive feeling of being incomplete, nagging me, tugging constantly on the back of my mind like a child would tug on pigtails. It feels like my soul is stretched across the city, like I forgot something important and can't remember what, only that I have to go back and get it. It feels like it felt those first few weeks here, in New York; the homesickness I felt at having moved across the world so suddenly, back then it had felt like I had left a part of myself in England - and then one day I had woken up and felt fine, like whatever was keeping me there had vanished.

It's like that, like once again I had lost something - left it somewhere far away and it was calling to me to find it.

Maybe it's because of homesickness - my apartment had been my home here since Agamemnon had taken me in - but that didn't feel right. I had hoped coming here would help me clear my mind, help me understand, but sitting here, looking at the grey-blue sky - not a rain loud in sight - I just felt more confused.

A woman sits across the path from me, a little further down on a bench under a tree. Her phone chimes loudly, but I ignore her.

Vanessa has been increasingly worried about how often I leave the apartment, always asking to come with me whenever I leave and barely leaving me alone for a second when the guilt gets to me and I let her trail along. I can't even convince her to get a table while I order coffee, she's that bloody clingy.

The woman's phone chirps again, and I glare at the disturbance.

I shake my head, brushing off her annoying tapping - seriously, who wears fake nails that long if they're going to impede on your everyday life? - and shrug the soft leather jacket around my shoulders tighter. I'd need a new coat soon, it was beginning to get colder and I don't think I can get away with the same black Eskimo jacket I'd had for two winters already.

The woman's phone goes off once again, only this time it's the grating sound of the generic iPhone incoming call tone and I wince as she answers with a nasally "hello?" to whoever unfortunate fellow is on the other end of that call.

I purse my lips, sighing as the woman starts up some undoubtedly petty longwinded rant to the person on the phone. Her voice bounces around in my skull, rattling on my nerves, and I glare at her once more for disturbing my peace.

The woman jumps, a small scream torn from her lips as she chucks the phone away from her. I jump at the suddenness of her actions - what the fuck? - but then she glances around self consciously, checking to see if anyone had seen her little moment as she holds her hand protectively to her chest. She see's me and laughs awkwardly - another annoying sound that did nothing to endear the woman to me.

"It gave me an electric shock!" She explains, like I could do something about it.

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh."

She laughs a little bit, standing up to gingerly collect her phone. She tuts. "Completely shattered - I should take it to the Apple Store! Shouldn't be electrifying people, that's dangerous!"

I nod. "Yeah."

The woman hastily collects her things and finally - finally - leaves, tutting about technology and danger as she goes, her obnoxiously thin frame disappearing the further down the path she goes.

I shrug it off, but something doesn't sit right within me.

Later, as I'm glaring intently at the loose gravel path at my feet, a jogger trips over nothing.

A dog walker's leash snaps and they're forced to go chasing their Labrador around the park.

A young girl's scarf goes flying away and gets stuck in a tree.

And then I really start to panic.

It's stupid, but it feels like - it feels like I'm causing these things to happen.

I stand up when I see another person coming my way and practically leg it in the other direction, avoiding eye contact with anyone I cross and hoping beyond hope nothing else bad happens.

It's like I'm a black cat, the human embodiment of spilled salt or a broken mirror. Walk under ladders or walk by Dan and you have seven years of bad luck!

The panic really sets in when, as I'm crossing the road in front of Vanessa's building, a car comes at me from nowhere and - on instinct - I hold out my hand in front of my face, and the car careens in the other direction and slams sideways into another parked car. I stand frozen in horror as the driver of the car stares at me, equally as shell shocked.

The man shakes his head and opens his car door, but before he can even take two stumbling steps I'm running away - into Vanessa's building and up the stairs two at a time.

I stop when I realise Vanessa lives in the penthouse, and allow myself to sink to the floor underneath a large black number 5 painted on the wall, a mantra of 'it isn't real' cartwheeling through my mind.

I placed my head between my knees, attempting to regulate my breathing.

It isn't real. It can't be me. It isn't possible.

But I can't escape it - I know it's me, somehow.

It's me. 

-Phil-

Dan's old apartment is a mess.

The first thing abundantly clear when they reach the right floor and the door that used to lead to the apartment of his... Soulmate?... Is that nobody really comes up here, if the state of the front door is anything to go by.

And by state, I mean only in the most figurative sense considering what is left can hardly be called a 'state' - splinters of dark wood litter the floor on either side, the door left hanging wide open from where it had presumably been kicked with considerable force.

"There's a camera down the hall, I'll ask at the desk for the tapes." Armitage said, Phil hummed absently - the desk clerk hadn't been much help, but Armitage was CIA - the man could probably demand her life savings and she'd have to give it to him.

Armitage calls the lift back to their floor, a woman with an excellent stony face and a wire in her ear following in his footsteps, leaving Phil alone with who he had been referring to as Goon for the car ride over here - an accurate nickname given his short cropped hair, sunglasses, black suit, and complete inability to acknowledge anyone except Armitage and the stony-faced woman.

Once the formidable agent steps into the lift, Phil lets out a breath and enters Dan's flat - Goon following silently in his wake.

"You could just stand outside." Phil suggests - he doesn't get a reply, but he had been expecting that when he spoke. More nervous rambling than anything.

Dan's apartment isn't in much of a better state than his door - again, meaning that it isn't really stately at all.

The place had been ransacked, to put it lightly.

The mattress lay half off the bed, the fabric sliced open in multiple places; some of the wooden slats from the bed frame were broken and splintered and sticking out at odd angles - it provided a rather haunting image. Violent. Lamps lay broken on the floor by the bedside tables and drawers were scattered in similar disposition around the room; one in particular lying in shambles by the bathroom beneath a hole in the wall where it had obviously been thrown in haste - or anger.

Phil looks around the room once more.

Probably anger.

Phil steps over the rubble towards the bathroom and looks in, noting the broken mirror and shower products scattered over the tiles - even the toilet had been broken, the ceramic lid smashed and hastily placed back on despite the good sized hole in one corner.

Next to the bathroom, the walk in wardrobe hasn't fared much better. The clothes are strewn about - thrown, dropped, some torn. Phil feels he can touch this area without contaminating the crime scene as Armitage had put it in the car. He turns around sees that Goon is focused on inspecting the broken window Dan had jumped out of to escape, and picks up a shirt hanging half off a hanger. He inspects the well worn material - once black but now faded to grey, the material worn down and soft with use. It must have been a favourite.

Without thinking about it, Phil bundles the shirt up with ease and stuffs it into his coat pocket - ignoring the slight bump it creates and hiding it by stuffing his hand in his pocket. He leaves the wardrobe, moving to stand by the window with Goon; the man won't be very good conversation, but he figures he might as well try.

Phil's mouth goes dry as he approaches the window, the cold air hitting him and sending chills down his spine the closer he gets. His thin jacket does little to protect from the growing sense of fear that lingers in the room, morphing and expanding the longer Phil stays in it.

He looks around the room, wondering if Dan had to fight his way out, if any of the broken furniture or scattered mess was caused by him fighting for his life, before deeming the drop to the ground a better option than whatever death was in store for him in this room. Phil wonders - not for the first time - if Dan knew about his powers, if the bag was simply on his shoulders because he had planned to escape and was too late, if he had simply forgotten it was there and meant to end his life on his own terms. If he knew he would die when he hit the ground - or if he knew he would live.

Phil feels sad, he feels anxious and scared and rushed and watched.

It's almost like he was there, witnessing Dan in his panic as he packed a bag in the middle of the night - desperate to escape - desperate to live.

Phil looks at the broken window, the shards of glass still stuck in the frame, and looks down. He almost thinks he can see Dan down there, head tilted upwards as he cranes his neck for one last glance at his home, checking to see if his attacker is looking down on him, or hesitating with sentimentality, before hitching a backpack higher on his shoulders and rushing away.

Phil shakes his head, and he is back in the room.

"What did you say?" Phil jumps, head whipping around in surprise at Goon's voice - hard edged but laced with surprise.

"W-what?" Phil asks, confused and more than a little alarmed that the silent guard had actually spoken to him.

"Quinto." Goon says, more to himself than Phil.

"Excuse me?" Goon suddenly seems to remember his vow of silence, because he just raises his eyebrows and leaves the room, hand reaching for his earpiece as he went.

Phil looks around the room once more, and that's when he notices something strange. The curtains were slashed weirdly - not all the way through, too low down to have been a random swing of an axe. He crouches, fingers tracing the jagged and frayed edges of what was once beautiful velvet; he looks at the other windows in the large space, the other curtains that were left completely untouched, and wonders what was different here.

He frowns, moving down to the window by an overturned settee, and throws open the curtains. His eyes go wide, and he moves down to the last window - he steps back, almost tripping over a stray shoe on the floor, and stares.

On both windows, in glaring red paint, is the letter V - the shape distorted and dripping.

He hears a noise behind him, and doesn't have to turn around to know it's Armitage returning.

"What does it mean?" He asks.

Armitage moves to stand beside him, their shoulders not quite brushing - but it's a close thing. Phil subconsciously finds himself leaning away, crossing his arms to make sure they don't touch. "Nothing good." The man says, cryptic as always.

"What does it mean for Dan?" Too late, Phil realises his slip and he winces.

Armitage raises an eyebrow, catching Phil's mistake. "Dan? You can tell his name just from being here?"

Phil doesn't sigh with relief, but it's a close thing. "This place practically screams at me." He doesn't feel guilty for lying, because it isn't strictly a lie - he finds it surprisingly easy to lie to this man, he had never been good at it before but now he finds himself lying more often than not.

"Can you tell anything else?"

He's scared. He quite possibly knew about his powers. He wears black and only black. He prefers to go to bed late and wake up early and it gives him awful bags under his eyes. He likes his coffee with milk no sugar. He never makes his bed. He's left handed. He has a soft spot on his neck that makes him moan when you kiss it.

"A little."

"Care to expand on that?"

Phil clears his throat uncomfortably. "He's a prostitute." He figures that's safe - there are hundreds, possibly thousands of prostitutes in New York City. "British, like me."

Armitage snorts. "I figured - you ever wondered why you suddenly wanted to move to New York, Phil?"

Phil had, actually. One day he had woken up with an insatiable desire to leave, and two weeks later he had a shitty apartment in New York and felt more at home than he had with his own family.

"I'm guessing," Armitage continued, "that it was Dan's influence - now, is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that can help us find him."

"No luck with the tapes?" Phil guesses, his hand gripping Dan's shirt like a lifeline in his pocket - Armitage notices, of course, but he doesn't comment besides a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Apparently the camera had miraculously been broken that night - and that night only."

Phil snorts. He weighs his options - on the one hand, Dan could be in mortal danger. He could die, he could be tortured, he could be in the hands of the Romans right that moment - but is being in the hands of the CIA much better?

"What does the V mean?" He asks, stubborn.

Armitage considers him for s moment, and then - gravely - he says, "it's not a V, it's a numeral - means five." Phil nods. "As for the colour-" his blood runs cold, red never means anything good. "-it means they think they've won. It's a mark for us to find. The death of incarnation 5."

"Dan's dead?" Phil yelps, eyes going wide.

Armitage shakes his head, much to Phil's relief. His heart stutters back to life, and he releases a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "No, but he's as good as if they're confident enough to boast."

Icy fear seeps back into Phil's bones, and he gives up the information he knows will bring them closer to Dan. "I see an octopus, a flat gold octopus - it's like a key."

Armitage grins, and Phil tries to force himself to feel glad that he recognises the key.

He can't.

"He's a part of the Octopus - I have an agent who can get into their ranks if need be, we've been looking for a reason to send him in since we started building his cover."

Phil gulps.

"We'll find him, Phil." Phil nods, neglecting to mention that's the very reason why he's so worried. Armitage gestures to Goon and stony-faced lady, "you two look around a bit more, see if you can find anything else that tells us about Dan - we're going to head back to HQ."

Phil steps out of the apartment, Armitage's hand on his back, taking him rather than guiding him; the forboding feeling doesn't leave like he'd expected it to - following him down the corridor and all the way down the 30 floors in the lift.

-

Phil had barely managed to get away for a walk, Armitage had been hesitant to let him out so late at night when it was clear that the Romans were a greater risk than originally thought, but Phil is nothing if not insistent. Dan's shirt is still in his pocket, and Phil's hand wraps around it subconsciously as he walks.

Times Square is beautiful at night - Phil loves the feeling of being completely invisible in a city filled to the brim with millions of people; millions of souls coinciding, existing together. Some would find it suffocating - hell, two months ago Phil was one of those people - but now all he feels is liberated, like he can do anything.

He feels invisible.

A good kind of invisible.

Phil stops in the middle of the street and just breathes - nobody frowns at him for blocking the street, actually, nobody even seems to notice. People from all walks of life swerve around Phil like they don't even notice they're doing it - like they're being repelled.

He frowns, the realisation that he really is invisible hitting him like a ton of bricks.

Huh.

But then, there, there is one person who notices him; a woman stood directly in front of him across the road, staring at him with a friendly smile on her face. Phil moves aside, watching her eyes follow him as he does so, and notices for the first time how people move around her without seeing her - just like him.

He makes up his mind, and crosses the road. He doesn't know what he will say to the woman, but he feels like she knows about him - like she knows what's happening, and that's something he could really do with knowing right now.

"Who are you?" He asks, moving to stand a meter away from her. She stays facing the road, but her eyes follow him as he moves to stand beside her.

"You don't need to know who I am, Phil."

Phil frowns. "You know who I am, it's only fair."

She smiles again, finally turning to face him on the street. Phil glances around, conscious of the thousands of potential eyes around them in that moment...but still nobody sees them. "I do know who you are, and I know who you seek."

"Dan."

She nods. "I have something for you."

"And why should I accept anything you give me?" Phil asks defensively, crossing his arms across his chest.

Her smile widens. "You're already acting like him, good, I have faith in you two."

Phil blanches. "What?"

Her grin falls, and she circles him slowly, less like a predator circles its prey and more like a fussy mother. She saunters to a stop directly behind him and speaks again, her whimsical voice floating around his head like an echo, he feels her hand lingering over his pocket - the one with Dan's shirt - before it falls as she steps away from his body. "You'll know, but you have to find him first."

Phil sighs, turning to face the woman. He takes in her appearance, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that ends at her mid-back, her eyes are impossibly large and lined with dark brown eyelashes. Her skin is pale and oddly shimmery, and she seems to float as she moves- like a leaf caught in the wind. "Who are you?" He asks again.

"I am Fate." She smiles once more. "And I have a present for you." Phil doesn't get a chance to say anything as the strange girl reaches into the pocket of her leather jacket and pulls out a key on a red ribbon. She holds it up for Phil to take, and frowns when he makes no move to receive it.

"What is it?"

"You will need it." Is all she says.

"When?" The impatience is beginning to make him feel antsy, and he feels only slight regret at his snappish tone of voice. Fate doesn't seem to mind, simply cocks her head a gives him another impish smile.

"Soon." Phil sighs and takes the key from her, slipping the ribbon around his neck and tucking the cold metal into his shirt. She steps forwards, her hand coming up to rest on Phil's cheek reassuringly, "you will find him, my dear, it will always be so. It is destined."

Phil feels genuine relief at her words - like whatever she says is the truth. But still, he is wary. "How do I know you aren't going to kill me? - or him?"

"You know I won't." She says, like a promise, like she can read his mind and knows he trusts her. "You have one more question."

Phil pauses. Maybe she can read his mind.

"Ask it." She insists.

"All of these people..." He starts, gesturing to the people around them - ignorant of their presence in the middle of the street. Mindlessly swerving around what they see as an empty spot on the pavement. "They don't see me, why? How?" He understands why they might not see her, if she truly is Fate like she claims, then she can surely keep herself from sight.

Phil asked the question, but he is not prepared for the answer. "Because you do not want to be seen." He hadn't even realised it, but she's right. Phil opens his mouth to ask her how to stop it, but she's already gone.

Phil looks around, but he doesn't spot the swish of a ponytail in the crowd of people. He thinks about what she said, thinks about being invisible and visible and how he hadn't wanted to be seen.

He doesn't want to be invisible though, he just wanted to disappear for a bit.

"Hey man," a distinctly American accent says, "keep moving."

Phil stares after the man who had spoken to him, a woman scowls at him as she almost walks straight into him. Eyes meet his as he glances from person to person, he grins, and keeps walking.

-Dan-

Vanessa is nowhere to be seen, a message on the fridge says she had gone out but it doesn't say where.

I'm glad to be alone, really, after the shocking revelations of the day I just wanted to be alone for a while. My shoulders slump the moment I realise I'm truly alone in the apartment, I feel hot and throw my shirt off as I walk towards the bathroom, intending to splash some cold water on my face. I look up into the mirror, water droplets clinging to my eyelashes and the stubble around my jawline, growing in from the last time I shaved.

I'm a walking broken mirror.

I frown at myself in the mirror, not recognising the person I have changed into in the past few days. I look older, infinitely so, like thousands upon thousands of years have suddenly begun pushing into me from all sides, pressing me and crushing me like the weight of a hundred lifetimes worth of responsibility rested entirely on my shoulders. I sigh as I stalk out of the bathroom, I need a drink.

Unfortunately, my quiet is broken the moment I walk out of the kitchen with a glass of whiskey - three fingers, it's been a stressful day - in hand and see a woman lounging on the settee.

The glass slips from my hand and shatters on the tile floor, glass and liquid spreading over my bare feet. The woman doesn't jump, or seem surprised in the slightest, but she does turn around to see what the commotion was.

"Dan!" She yelps, a large friendly smile on her face, completely at ease with herself like we'd been friends for years. But we hadn't - I have never seen this woman before in my life, I'm sure of it. "Good you're back, we need to act quickly!"

"W-what?" I stutter, seriously confused. "Who the fuck are you?"

The strange woman stands, approaching me in a hurry. "No time for introductions, ask Phil who I am when you see him."

"Phil?"

She tuts, rolling her eyes. "Now, really? You know who Phil is."

The man from that night slips into my mind but I quickly shake the thought away - it couldn't be him because I hadn't stuck around long enough to learn his name. "I really don't." She hits my arm harshly and I flinch backwards, shocked. "Hey!"

"You slept with him like... Two days ago!" She counts on her fingers like a child. "I know, I was there!"

I blanch, completely at a loss. "What? Hang on, what is happening right now? You were there?! Who are you?"

"Right now? You're about to be attacked, terrible choice in friends Danny-boy!" The woman makes an ah! sound, like she had just remembered something important. My mind is too busy reeling to notice as she pulls out a key on a red ribbon from nowhere and stuffs it into my trousers pocket. "Better keep ahold of that, you'll need it - Gosh I should have came here first! Anyway, yes I was there, who do you think twisted fate to make it so you two would meet? I've never seen a pair so determined to stay away from each other for so long! Had to go and make one of your clients sick and leave his octopus somewhere Phil would find it." She smacks my arm again, and I jump out of my reverie with a pained yelp. "Bloody stubborn idiots!" She accuses.

"Wha-"

"I am Fate."

"I don't understand." I say pathetically, crossing my arms over my stomach as everything she had just said sinks in. Fate suddenly looks sad, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder reassuringly.

"You will - find Phil and you will."

"I don't know how to find him - I know nothing about him."

She shakes her head, a wistful smile playing on her face. "You know everything about him."

A loud bang outside seems to bring the moment to an end, and Fate suddenly snaps to attention. "I have to go now, don't fight them Dan, you'll know what to do when the time comes - after that, find Phil."

Fate steps away, but I'm still confused. "Wait!" I call after her, but she's already running - she crashes out of the window and I flinch, remembering the sound of shattering glass as I had done the same only a few days ago - but it doesn't come. I look up, and the window is perfectly intact; Fate is nowhere to be seen.

Find Phil.

It echoes in my mind as the banging from outside gets louder and closer, I tense up, remembering what she had said.

You're about to be attacked. Don't fight.

Fuck that.

The door crashes open and I spring into action, bolting for the bathroom without even looking at who it may be coming for me.

Vanessa would be so mad about her apartment.

I lock the bathroom door just in time, the loud slam of a body on the hard wood sounding out just as I slam the lock closed.

Then I realise the mistake I had made. How could I have been so stupid? Years of learning how to avoid making mistakes like this, years of fighting for survival against a drunken father all for nothing as I allow myself to be cornered.

Vanessa's bathroom is big - a large mirror covering most of one wall, a clawed foot bath with an old fashioned but definitely modern shower head, the porcelain loo off to the side, partially hidden from this angle by the sink and bathroom counter covered in many different kinds of makeup and hair products that I barely could tell the uses of, and worst of all, no windows.

I'm fucked.

The door slams open, the wood splintering as it breaks. I scream, ducking and throwing my arms over my head as splinters rain down on me, some embedding themselves in my skin. A hand grabs my arm and yanks it to the side, sending me sprawling across the floor, my head hits the side of the tub on the way down and the white bathroom turns momentarily blue and red, then spins dizzyingly - then everything stills, blurred out of focus. Something white and rough and wet covers my vision and, as I gasp in surprise, a putrid smell hits my nose and I gag. I will not be drugged.

I lash out with my fists, knocking the rag away and back up, eyes wide as the very same man who had haunted my steps for the last few days stares down at me, his dark eyes glinting with a sick kind of joy, his gimp mask making him all the more intimidating.

"Nowhere to go, boy." The man growls, his accent indistinguishable due to the muffling the mask causes - it definitely isn't American, but I couldn't say for sure where it was from. It isn't British either, but the words throw me back in time to another bathroom nearly six years ago, a different man leaning over me with a sadistic grin on his face and a knife in his hands. Nowhere to go boy, where would you be without my hospitality? You can try and leave but you'll always end up here. I shake my head.

"No!" I whisper, voice breaking embarrassingly. "I won't go back."

The man leans down and I try, I really do, to fight him off - I make a dash for the door, attempting to crawl through his legs even as my stomach rolls sickeningly. I'm pulled back by the ankle, and I can do nothing as I'm thrown bodily into the wall, the mirror shattering as I collide.

I fall back to the floor, groaning.

"That was unnecessary, Byron, I liked that mirror."

I gasp for breath as another person comes into view, she is blurred, but her tanned skin and posture is unmistakeable. "Nessa?" I gasp, clutching at my rolling stomach, nauseated. "What is happening?"

Vanessa steps forward, crouching in front of me with an unconcerned expression on her usually kind face. She reaches out, caressing my face mockingly before before pulling her hand back and slapping me hard across the face. I cry out in surprise, not because it hurts, and hate the way my vision can't stop spinning afterwards.

"I am sorry, Daniel." Vanessa says, sounding like the least sorry person in the world. "I 'ave to." Her accent is stronger, more spiteful, this can't be Vanessa - this girl is a stranger.

Dan's heart aches. "Why?" He gasps out.

"Because you are dangerous," she explains, running a finger down my bare chest lightly, "and you need to be taken care of."

"How am I dangerous?"

Vanessa smirks. "You really 'ave not worked it out? That boy, the one you do not know the name of, he makes you dangerous."

"Phil." I whisper, the name spilling off my tongue.

Her eyes light up. "You know his name." She turns to the man in the mask, Byron, and grins. "You were right, we are just in time - any longer and he may have been strong enough to resist."

I look back and forth between them, desperately confused. "Resist?" I squeak. "Resist what? - what are you going to do to me?"

Vanessa laughs, so unlike her usual kind self. I feel sick, I'm less woozy now, but it doesn't stop the horrible sickly feeling of betrayal from settling in my stomach and curdling my insides. It feels like acid down my throat, looking in all of the crevices of my body. "We aren't going to kill you - not just yet."

Byron steps forward, kneeling beside me and pulling my upper body up by the neck. I gag as his hand presses into my windpipe, and I resist the urge to squirm uncomfortably at the feeling of rough fingers around my neck.

"We'll find Phil first, it's always better to get rid of you both at the same time." She nods her head. Tears spring to my eyes, Phil can't die. They can't find Phil.

"Please." I choke out, voice broken. "We're friends, please."

Vanessa pouts, kneeling on the opposite side to Byron and leaning in. My vision begins to go fuzzy from the lack of oxygen, my hands grip at Byron's uselessly as the traitorous tears spill down the sides of my face.

"We were never friends."

The white cloth covers my vision once again, a foul smell, and then I'm well and truly gone.


	5. Bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so like? i totally forgot????// that i never finished this,,,?,?,,,, and like its been a WIP for over a year??,, sorry
> 
> anyway this chapter contains sex apparently, i dont really remember since i wrote it like 3 years ago but????? sex.

Phil hadn't gone back to Armitage and the CIA after his run in with Fate - a heavy feeling inside of him kept him from going back, so he spent the night in a nearby hotel, knowing he couldn't go back to his home either.

Somehow he had managed to get a room and a key all without giving his name or card details.

He had simply walked in, thought about being given a room, and he was given it. He had booked it first thing in the morning, scared someone would discover him, and spent the rest of the day wandering the streets aimlessly.

He felt wrong, like something had happened over night that he couldn't place.

Phil pauses on the street, feeling eyes on him. He turns around slowly, and sees Fate waving at him from across the road - just like how they had first encountered each other the day before, Phil frowns and steps out onto the road towards her.

She smiles, then vanishes into thin air. Phil stops in his tracks, and it's a good thing too because, not a millisecond later, a van pulls up where he would have been had he kept walking. Phil jumps backwards to avoid being hit by the wing mirrors, and he jumps straight into the arms of another person.

Phil struggles as he is forced into the back of the van - people around them scream and run away from the altercation, some step forwards as if to help, but before they can even get close the van doors are closing and the van is taking off.

Phil's eyes have yet to adjust to the darkness and he flails, his arms are caught in another's hands and he feels strong circles of cold metal enclosing around his wrists. Handcuffs.

"What is this?" Phil shouts, kicking out with his legs, proud of himself when he hears a familiar pained grunt.

"You thought you could just run away like that?"

Armitage. Of course.

A light flicks on and Phil scowls at the man in front of him.

"I wasn't running away!" Phil defends himself.

"Bullshit!" Armitage spits. "You're running."

Phil scowls. "Fuck you, Armitage." He surges forward, but is pulled backwards by the two lackeys at his side - one of them is Goon, stoic expression on his face like always. "Fuck you, and fuck the CIA - I'm not your slave and you'll never find Dan!"

Armitage grins. "Oh but we will, as long as we have you - he'll come to us." Phil frowns, not understanding the meaning behind the man's words, but knowing they can't be good. Armitage laughs, a bitter sound. "You two are like planets. Where the earth goes, the moon isn't far away."

Phil stays silent, glaring angrily at the man in front of him. The van stops, and Phil is hauled to his feet.

"Lock him away." Armitage says to Goon as the van that drove them disappears around the corner. The man nods, grip tightening on Phil's shoulder.

Phil feels a pang of regret for what he is about to do, but he can't let Dan fall into the hands of these people who would use him - use them for their power.

Phil kicks out, tripping the unsuspecting guard on his left with his sudden attack, and uses the momentum to fling himself out of the grasp of Goon and to manoeuvre his arms in front of him. He doesn't question it as he backs away from the trio, one on the floor clutching a bloody wound on his forehead and the other two readying themselves for attack. Armitage looks angry, teeth bared at Phil in annoyance.

"When did you find him, Phil?" Phil ignores him in favour of focusing on Goon, and when the guard lashes out, he's ready for it.

Phil throws himself out of the way of the attack and spins around to loop his arms - and the handcuffs - around the man's neck; he pulls, the chain of the handcuffs tight, and flinches as Armitage takes the opportunity to lunge at him. He spins, using Goon's increasingly limp body to knock the larger man off course, it works. Goon gags as the chain tightens around his neck with the movement and Phil jabs a knee into the man's back to silence him, there's a sickening crunch, and Phil knows he won't be getting back up has he crumples to the floor with a pained groan.

Armitage flies at him again, but Phil ducks out of the way and almost laughs as the man collides with the second guard who had just managed to stand back up. Phil twirls his body around, since he can't pull his arm back to take a punch, and hits Armitage on the side of the head, the cuffs hit their mark and the man goes down, blood trickling from the shallow wound on his head.

The last guard collects himself, looking nervous as he faces Phil down alone, a small trickle of blood over his left eyebrow and clinging to the lashes. The man sniffs and blinks the blood away; he looks scared as he glances back and forth between his downed compatriots. Phil suddenly feels a sense of shame for his actions - Goon would likely never walk again, it wasn't necessary to do that to him. He feels guilt.

He should feel guilt.

"You don't want to do this." Phil appeals, chest heaving. The man swallows, resolve tightening as he looks at Phil and his sudden change in demeanour, then he lunges. Big mistake, Phil backs up, uses the wall of the building to the right to propel himself over the charging man - he stops before he hits the wall, but it doesn't matter as Phil uses the momentum of his jump to roundhouse kick the man.

His foot hits the man's jaw, and he goes careening into the wall.

When he goes down, he doesn't get back up.

Phil pants, surrounded by unconscious bodies.

He remembers how Fate had waved to him before he had been abducted, how she had told him to look for Dan and given him a key - remembers how Armitage had told him they would find each other. He looks at Goon and the weird angle his body lies in, the lackey he doesn't know the name of bleeding from multiple lacerations to the head on the floor, and finally at Armitage with a nasty wound to the temple. He looks at his chained hands and he doesn't recognise them, a splattering of blood on his wrist - presumably from Armitage's head wound, and shaking from the shock of what he had just done.

He thinks of Dan, the way the boy carried himself - like a fighter - like a dancer - like someone bread for this life of running, a life of deviance.

Phil isn't like that. He's a bookstore worker and before that an English literature graduate. He had moved to New York on a whim, lead by dreams and desires of something more - no - he had moved to New York because Dan did, followed a boy he didn't know halfway across the world.

They were drawn to each other.

Like the moon and the earth.

Phil pulls the key Faith had given him over his neck with some difficulty and considers it, it isn't the same colour as the silver cuffs - more brass. But it's the right size.

He takes a chance.

The cuffs unlock with a clack, and Phil laughs in surprise as he pulls them from his wrists, stuffing them in his coat pocket along with the key. He feels something there as he does so, soft against his skin, he frowns and pulls the thing out - and then he remembers when he sees the slightly crumpled faded black material of Dan's shirt.

Find Dan.

Phil doesn't know how, but he knows where to go.

He takes off running. 

-meanwhile- 

I wake up to the oppressive darkness, the feeling of six walls closing in around me is disorienting, contrasting to the way the endless darkness and echoing of my breaths create the illusion of a room far too large for just one occupant.

I'm in a box.

I hit the roof with my hands, but I'm still weak from whatever drugs they had dosed me with and it does nothing.

I force myself to focus as the waves of an oncoming panic attack begin to wash over me. I can't believe how I got here; Vanessa, my best friend, wants to kill me. It feels too hot, the tightness making it hard to pull in oxygen and the swirling panic in my mind making it even harder to think.

Vanessa had been monitoring me, presumably, to see which drugs affected me and which didn't - as many tended not to. Had took me into her home to get close to me. Had used me.

The betrayal hurt, but I had to focus. Think. I couldn't even see, the darkness and the quiet pressing in all around me like the walls of a cave.

My very own Hell.

Perhaps I deserved this.

No.

A sudden clarity washes over me like a bucket of ice water and I begin to fumble around in the dark, shoving my hands into my pockets with some difficulty - my phone is gone, go figure, but not everything has been taken from me. Clearly they didn't search very well. My fingers enclose around something hard and distinctly plastic and, with a sigh of relief, I pull the lighter out of my pocket.

Using the faint glow of the lighter's flame, I look around for anything that might help me in the flickering light, the panic in me slowly dissipating with the darkness.

There's a keyhole, some lace, a lot of hard wood and barely enough room to raise my head to look around.

The sight of the endless wood makes me feel dizzy and I stare at the keyhole as I consider my options. There aren't many. I could scream, but that may only attract their attention. I could try and break the wood, but the ache in my fists tell me it's pretty solid, and with little room to move, it would be nearly impossible to break through.

I laugh bitterly to myself at this horrid twist of fate. My friend betrayed me. A stranger managed to get into my head. And now I'm in a box, trapped. Cruel twist of fate indeed.

Suddenly, my eyes widen as I remember, Fate! Fate had talked to me, given me a gift. A key. I make sure not to drop the lighter as my hands fly back to my pockets, struggling slightly as I work to pull the key on its ribbon out of the tight material.

My eyes find the keyhole once again, and with barely another thought, I thrust Fate's key into the lock.

-

The lid of the coffin opens with a sharp, echoing clack, and I climb out hesitantly - wary of people who may be lurking nearby.

The room I'm in is completely silent; the large hall, scarcely decorated, would be completely empty but for the strange array of coffins in the centre of the marble tiling. The one I'm in is rather plain, dark black wood with white lace interior, and there's a matching one right beside it - empty.

I don't hesitate any longer, a feeling inside of me telling me there's nobody here. I place the red ribbon carrying the key around my neck and hop out of the coffin with little difficulty and a small amount of surprise at the absence of any stiffness - how long must I have been in the box?

It feels like a while, but it also feels like no time at all...

It feels like it doesn't matter one bit.

I walk around the hall, regarding the coffins with a morbid curiosity. There are six in total; two sets of pairs, the coffins identical to the other in each pair - two a deep mahogany, engraved with flowers, and the other two a plain light wood. The last two are different, older for sure, one of them seeming positively regal in its decorations - who puts rubies on a coffin? - and the other hastily carved, it looks almost like two rounded off canoes on top of each other.

"They're the incarnations of the past." A voice says, and I jump as Fate appears beside me. "Well, those that were ever discovered."

"Why couldn't you just let me out?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

Fate grins. "You have to do some things for yourself."

I laugh, somewhat hysterically, then sober up when I realise I have nowhere to go. "What do I do now?" I whisper, feeling lost.

"Find Phil." I sigh, feeling unsure. "You know where he is," she continues, "you can feel him. He's looking for you too."

She's right, I can feel it. With every fibre of my being, I feel him; feel his nervousness and his devotion and his everything.

Fate is gone by the time I turn to leave.

Nobody stops me as I take off running in the direction I know I'll find him. 

-Phil- 

Phil runs and he runs.

He knows exactly where he is going, can see the place in his head as he turns corners through Times Square, cuts through side alleys until he is standing outside the very building he knows he'll find Dan.

He rushes inside, not bothering to check in - they'll know he is here.

He knows they'll know. He'll make them know.

Phil gets in the lift alone, and as the doors are closing he spots Dan across the lobby of the Muse Hotel, topless and searching. He grins as Dan's eye catches his, just before the doors close.

Phil leans against the railing and waits.

Dan gets on the lift at the second floor, hair askew and breath coming in small bursts like he had ran up the stairs two at a time. He smirks to himself as he moves to lean besides Phil at the railing.

The two of them face the empty hallway and wait for the doors to close, not a word passing between them.

The doors close, Dan turns, and their lips meet in a hungry kiss.

The world turns on its axis, but it doesn't feel like it's moving out of place - no - it's moving back.

"Finally." Phil whispers into Dan's mouth.

Dan's hands tangle in his hair, their lips parted, brushing together as their chests heave for breath.

"Finally." Dan agrees, and leans in for another kiss.

Phil's arms snake around Dan's waist, pulling the boy closer as his hands drag through Phil's hair.

The elevator stops and Phil hears the dragging noise that symbolises the doors opening, he braces his hands on Dan's hips and shoves the boy backwards until the brighter light of the hallway washes over his closed eyelids and Dan's back hits the wall of the corridor. Dan gasps then bites down harshly on Phil's bottom lip.

Phil pulls away completely, his eyes never leaving Dan's as he wipes a spot of blood off his now split lip with his thumb. Then, with a huff of nervous laughter, he smiles sheepishly.

"Are we always going to meet like this?" He murmurs, afraid to break the delicate veil that has fallen over them.

Dan laughs up to the roof of his mouth, a sound that sets Phil's soul on fire in a thousand ways. "God, I hope so."

Then they are kissing again, stumbling down the corridor with linked hands and colliding hearts. 

Dan laughs when he reaches the room Phil knows to be 'theirs'. The door isn't locked and they stumble through with twin grins, whispers of kisses on cheeks, heads, necks, lips.

Phil suddenly feels sheepish, shy in front of the boy he had been looking for since... Since forever, he knows now. He steps away, feeling guilty at Dan's inquisitive look.

"What's the matter?" Dan asks. Phil looks at him, really looks at him, and for the first time notices the dark circles under Dan's eyes, the dimples on his cheeks when he pronounces certain words, the way he is taller and fitter and infinitely more attractive than Phil is. Dan's mouth opens in surprise, his eyes shining like he understands. Phil knows he understands. "You don't know how beautiful you are?"

Phil lets out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding and slinks backwards, crossing his arms across his chest and looking away.

Dan doesn't let him get far, following him until he's got him crowded up against the wall, right where he wants him, right where he should be. Dan runs his hands down his forearms, stroking back and forth lovingly. "You don't know..." He pulls Phil's arms apart, pulling them up and pushing himself against Phil's body, against the wall, his nose ghosting over Phil's neck. "How obsessed I've been..." He places a kiss to the sensitive place where Phil's pulse flutters beneath his skin, his lips brush against Phil's ear and he shudders, melting into Dan's body. "With you."

Dan pulls away, slightly, shifting his grip so he holds Phil's arms up with one hand and the other can rest on Phil's chin, pulling his gaze up to meet his own. Phil's shyness melts away as the warm honey flecks in Dan's coffee brown eyes light up with happiness. Dan's eyes are livening, they make Phil feel drunk like whiskey and energised like coffee and relaxed like chocolate all at the same time.

Then Phil notices the ribbon around Dan's neck, and grins. "Fate got you too?"

Dan huffs, shoving Phil backwards towards the bed as he does so. "Is she really Fate?"

Dan's lips latch onto his neck and it's a while before Phil can even form a coherent thought, let alone a coherent sentence. "I think.. Shit... After the week I've had and- oh! - what we are, I'm down to believe anything- fuck! Dan!"

Dan pulls back, admiring the generous hickey placed under Phil's ear. "What we are?" He asks.

Phil grunts and turns them over, Dan's legs around his waist and Phil's hands leaving fire hot trails all over his torso. "Prophesied." Phil whispers, feeling rather stupid as he does so.

Dan doesn't seem to mind, more concerned with ridding Phil of his jacket than the conversation they were having. The jacket hits the floor with a thud, louder than it should have been, and Phil's eyes snap to Dan's inquisitive ones, remembering.

Phil smirks. "Do you wanna know what's in my pocket?"

Dan laughs. "Is it something interesting?"

Phil bites his lip, leaning backwards to look down at Dan and around the room. He notes the candles on the bedside table, lit for some time of the melted wax was anything to go by, and the ornate metal bed frame. He raises an eyebrow down at Dan, finger tracing the boy's wrist delicately where it lies on the silk bedsheets. "Quite possibly."

Dan hums, then nods. Phil pulls away from the bed, pulling his shirt over his head as he moves to retrieve the jacket Dan had thrown. He comes back with his belt unbuckled, having given in to the discomfort of his dick straining in his jeans, and a pair of handcuffs in hand.

Dan laughs cheekily as Phil repositions himself above Dan, legs straddling hips and eyes alight with wander.

"I'm rubbing off on you." Dan says.

"How would you know?" Phil challenges, attaching one of the cuffs to Dan's wrist tightly. Dan gasps in pleasure at the restricting bite of the metal pinching his skin, then licks his lips as Phil leans over him to wrap the chain through the headboard and attach the other cuff to Dan's other wrist - equally as tightly.

"I know." He gasps, adjusting his position on the bed to a more comfortable pose. Phil lets him, not bothering to argue anymore as he knows it to be true - he would never have done this before knowing Dan. Had never even entertained the thought before this boy came into his life in a whirlwind of confusing feelings, black leather, and cheeky smiles.

Dan's arms jolt as Phil's hands find his body, fingertips barely touching skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Tease!" He gasps, back arching into Phil's touch desperately.

Phil says nothing, but stands up and away from Dan to observe the beautiful sight he made. Phil's dick strains in his pants and he strokes himself through his boxers - beneath his jeans - lazily as Dan eyes him through half lidded eyes on the bed. Dan is entirely too clothed, Phil decides, and he moves back in to pull Dan's jeans from his body. The boy raises his hips to give him easier access, and sighs in relief as his already half hard cock is released - of course Dan goes commando.

Phil groans at the sight of Dan's entirely naked body before him and says, voice rough, "you have no idea the sight you make."

Dan smirks. "You have no idea the sight you make." He bites his lip. "Standing over me, completely in control, dominating me." He groans bawdily.

Phil moves over him again, suddenly a little unsure of what Dan wants, what he likes and what he needs. Phil wants to give everything to Dan. He's well aware of Dan's profession, but he doesn't know everything about the boy. "What do you want?" He asks, because he may be on top but he certainly isn't the one in control here - no matter what Dan says.

Dan has more experience, more knowledge, and Phil is ready to learn.

"Anything." Is the breathy reply.

Phil tilts his head, reaching to the side to pick up one of the candles without moving his gaze from Dan's face. Dan's eyes follow his actions, lighting up when he realises what he's going for. "Safe words?" Phil asks, because he doesn't want to hurt Dan.

Dan groans as Phil holds the candle above him, tilting it from side to side teasingly. "I'll tell you to stop when I need it... Just... Please."

Phil nods, tilting the candle a little too far and allowing some of the hot wax to pour over. Dan gasps as the wax burns the sensitive skin of his stomach, his dick twitching in interest at the stinging pain. Phil feels the boy's body straining beneath him as he whispers expletives under his breath, tears in his eyes refusing to fall. Phil pushes Dan back against the bed with a firm hand to the chest, tweaking a nipple in the process and biting his lip to repress his own gasps as Dan moans openly, eyes pinched closed and head thrown back into the soft pillows in pleasure.

Dan's eyes open slowly as Phil steps away, placing the candle back on the table and removing his pants and underwear with little fuss.

"Phil." He hears Dan groan, and he moves once again to straddle him. Dan's arms move as if to touch him, only to be yanked back by the chain of the cuffs. "Fuck, touch me dammit!" He hisses, Phil complies.

Phil pushes the thumb of his dominant hand into Dan's pliant mouth as he allows his free hand to explore Dan's body; he skims over Dan's cock, causing the boy to groan around his now slick thumb. Phil pulls his hand away, a trail of spit following his finger until it breaks, drool begins to run down Dan's chin and Phil pauses to grip harshly at his thigh. His hand wraps around Dan's throat as he pushes Dan's leg up, positioning his body between his legs and grinding their hips together.

Phil's mouth catches Dan's mid-moan in a filthy kiss, spit spreading around their open mouths and battling tongues. Phil lets go of Dan's leg to get a better grip on his hips as they rut together, the leg he abandoned moving to wrap around his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

"Get in me." Dan whispers when they break apart for air. Phil's eyes snap open. "I won't last much longer if you don't."

Phil holds back another groan as Dan, the minx, pushes his hips up against Phil's. "We haven't properly-"

"I don't care." He interrupts breathily, writhing underneath Phil's body once more.

"I haven't got any-"

"I don't care." He groans again, capturing Phil's mouth once more and sucking his tongue between his swollen lips.

Phil loses any hesitancy he may have had, lining himself up with Dan's hole and pushing in ever so slightly. Dan winces, but doesn't tell him to stop like he promised if things got too much. He must sense Phil's concern, because his hips move in a way that drags Phil in ever so slightly deeper and pulls his undivided attention back to the beautiful boy bellow him.

"I've had way harsher sex then this, Phil, I won't break."

Then Phil remembers what Dan does for a living, and allows himself to push in all the way. It's slow, Dan feels tight - definitely not virgin tight, but unprepared tight. Dan moans wantonly and turns his head to the side, muffling the noises in the goose feather pillows.

That won't do. Phil pulls one hand away from Dan's hips and forces his face forward. He snaps his hips in and out once and marvels at the unbridled mewling that falls from between Dan's lips. It's dirty, but so pure at the same time.

It's positively carnal, just as it's supposed to be. Humans are animals after all, we're no better than the wildest of animals, no more tame or proper. The only thing keeping us from giving in to our animalistic pleasures are our egos, our restricting laws and idiotic belief in a hierarchy - in superiority. We are not superior, we are way way worse.

It feels good to let go of humanity's created sensibilities, of our restrictions and to allow ourselves to be free of our own repression.

Dan looks beautiful with saliva running down his face, his eyes heavily lidded and rolling backwards as Phil's hand wraps around his throat and he fucks him into the mattress - moaning with pleasure at every brush against his prostate, wax cool on his stomach and his skin soaked in a sheen of sweat. His expression is angelic as he comes, his choked yell animalistic in nature just as it should be.

Phil's movements become erratic as the hot feeling pooling in his stomach increases and, with one final thrust, he falls, following Dan into oblivion.

Some moments later, as they're both panting and coming down from their highs, Phil pulls out of Dan with a shared wince and falls to the side, pulling the key from around his neck in one smooth movement to unlock both cuffs, kissing the skin all around Dan's wrists even though he knows they aren't hurt in the slightest.

Dan watches through half lidded eyes as he does it, a sleepy smile on his face. He reaches out once, stroking his hand through Phil's midnight hair gently. He shuffles closer and forcefully wrapping Phil's arms around him as he tucks his head against the other's chest.

It feels right.

Phil thinks, after all, that he's never felt so different as when he's with Dan.

He's never felt more himself either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my notes over on wattpad from a year ago:
> 
> "My parents are so proud of me hahahahahahahaha
> 
> Sorry if this is awkward, I'm always hesitant to write this kind of stuff and I'm hoping that doesn't show.
> 
> Also I hate the word 'member', I try so hard not to have to write member. I even googled "synonyms for penis" and found some pretty interesting ones, my favourites:
> 
> Pee-pee  
> Chopper (this one is actually used a lot where I come from - anyone ever watched Geordie Shore??)  
> Pudding   
> Pego  
> Tonk  
> And, last but not least:  
> Intromittent organ (seriously, who says that?)"
> 
> haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang yourself previous me


	6. Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my warnings on wattpad tells me someones gonna die p graphically in this chapter but its not a mcd so i dont have to change my tags thank fuck thats just too much hassle

Phil is definitely more than I thought he'd be when I first encountered him. I see it now, after Fate and Vanessa, after almost dying. I could have avoided being abducted by Vanessa and Byron, I've fought myself out of worse situations before - but now I realise where the hesitation came from.

It's Phil.

Somehow this boy has brought out the soft side in me, that much is evident as I watch his chest rise and fall with his breaths, watch drool run from the corners of his mouth as he sleeps, listen to the light snores the boy makes, and all I can think is that he must be an angel.

He makes me feel soft. Ever since our first night together I've been unable to properly enjoy the things I usually would, I hadn't been myself.

But now I feel grand.

Grander than I had in years.

Phil begins to stir and I smile despite myself, unable to stop the gesture from creeping onto my face at the cute sleepy sounds Phil is making. I give in and allow myself to stroke his fringe away from his face, his eyes flutter open - so breathtakingly blue - and he smiles too.

"Hey." He croaks, voice heavy with the remnants of his sleep.

"Hello." I return, tilting my head as I watch the sunlight from the open window dance over Phil's features. "You really are beautiful." Phil blushes, from the tips of his ears to his chest, and scoffs. I scowl and pinch the skin on his stomach where my hand had been stroking lazily. "I mean it!"

Phil turns away, checking the time on the clock by the television. I know it's past noon, and Phil seems to be shocked when he realises. "We slept late!"

I nod and move to straddle his hips, leaning down for a lazy kiss. It feels nice like this, something new and exciting but old and familiar all at the same time. Everything feels familiar with Phil. "Yes we did, and now you're going to explain this all to me because I still don't understand and I've been waiting or your lazy arse to wake up for an hour now."

Phil smirks. "You've been watching me sleep for an hour?"

I hit his arm and he laughs cockily. "Don't change the subject - are you always like this?"

Phil seems to sober up. "No, actually."

I look away from his face, suddenly unable to meet his eyes for the intensity with which they watch mine. "Me neither..." I trail off as I think about what to say, how to word it. Does Phil know? Can he feel it too like I can? That we're changing each other - somehow. "I know it's because - and I don't really know how I know, I just kind of do, you know? - it's because we're, well, we're influencing each other." I bite my lip, unsure and completely aware of how crazy I sound while saying it.

I'm still straddling Phil's hips, and I become more aware to that fact as Phil's hands come to rest on my thighs. "I know," he says, quiet and contemplative, "Armitage told me I moved here because of you, Fate told me I'm already acting like you, and I know they're right because it-it feels right."

I nod, happy that he understands, then I pause. "Armitage?"

"CIA."

My mouth falls open - Phil is CIA? "Are you-?"

"God no!" Phil interrupts, squeezing my thigh protectively. "No, no, they picked me up when I- after I was..."

I squint at him suspiciously. "After you what?" Phil sighs, rubbing my thighs placatingly as he bites his lip. "Phil! Tell me!"

"I was shot, they found me after I was shot point blank in the stomach by a mugger and fucking crushed the bullet."

I raise my eyebrows, breath stuttering as I gape at him in shock. "You were... You were shot?!"

Phil sighs again and moves to sit up, I fall to the side and let him, watching closely as he moves across the room to his discarded jeans. He thumbs around in the pockets for a moment before returning, something small and silver held between his thumb and pointer finger. I reach out hesitantly and he drops the oddly shaped bullet in my hands - both sides are completely flattened, as if the bullet had hit solid rock rather than the delicate flesh of Phil's stomach.

I look up at Phil, still standing beside the bed, and reach out to touch the completely unmarred skin around his belly button. It feels smooth, the little hairs on his navel are soft and everything about him screams delicate; he isn't muscled like I am, or lightly tanned like I am. I splay my hand across his abdomen, feeling his stomach rise and fall with every breath. "I knew we were strong, but I never imagined it was like that - stopping punches is one thing compared to bullets."

"You jumped out of a top floor window in the 60 Wall Tower!"

I raise an eyebrow when he says it, but I don't call him out on how he knows - it doesn't matter anyway. "It isn't called that anymore." I correct him, moving my hand away from his stomach.

Phil waves a hand dismissively. "How did you know you would survive?"

I pause and sit up, running a hand through my hair as I contemplate what to tell him. "Honestly, I wasn't certain..." I take a deep breath, deciding on the truth. "The way I was raised - my dad - I've escaped out of a lot of windows in my life, let's just say that."

Phil seems to catch on and looks at me with sad eyes, I don't feel annoyed like I usually would - I don't want pity, but from Phil it feels different. It feels like acceptance. It feels like a promise of something better when, instead of apologising like most people do when they find out (a useless sentiment), he changes the subject.

"We're going to have to leave soon, Armitage - the CIA - will be looking for us." Phil clicks his fingers together, as if remembering something important. "And those other people too, apparently we're being hunted by some faction who call themselves the Romans."

I wonder for a moment about Vanessa and Byron, wonder if they're affiliated with these Romans or the CIA or if they're something else entirely. I don't even really know why Phil and I are like this, why we're 'gifted' and hunted for it.

"God, I haven't even explained it to you have I?" Phil runs a hand through his hair and I chuckle at the stressed expression on his face. I stand up and kiss his cheek affectionately, I've never done that to a person who wasn't only a friend before, never such a loving gesture.

"It's alright, you can explain to me on the way."

Phil leans backwards to look at me. "The way where?"

I roll my eyes. "Well, if we're being hunted by so many people then we'd better go somewhere they won't look for us." I walk away to fetch my jeans from last night, and throw Phil's shirt at him when I find it next to one of my shoes. Phil catches it effortlessly, taking the cue to start getting dressed the same way I am.

I scowl down at myself when I'm done, frowning at my bare chest. Why did they have to abduct me while I was half naked?

Phil comes over, tilting his head at my frown. I point to my chest in way of explanation and my frown deepens when he burst out laughing.

"It's not funny! I'll stick out like a sore thumb - your CIA buddies will spot a six foot topless Greek God like me immediately if they're monitoring CCTV for us!"

Phil only laughs harder, sitting on the edge of the bed to keep from falling over. I can't help but let out a chuckle as he leans over, other hand thrown over his stomach and tongue poking out from between his teeth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Phil says, still chuckling lightly. "It's just - I have something." I raise an eyebrow inquisitively, and then another when Phil pulls some crumpled material from his jacket pocket and hands it to me.

"Is this my shirt?" I ask incredulously, holding my favourite shirt out in front of me to inspect. It's old, threadbare, there's a hole in the seam of one shoulder and it's more grey than black but it's comfy as fuck and I wouldn't trade it for all the Yeezy shirts in the world.

Phil nods. "I picked it up when Armitage took me to your place to see if it would lead me to you - I don't really know why I did it, I just felt like I should."

"Well I guess it was fate because it sure has come in handy." I throw the shirt over my head, feeling infinitely more comfortable as the soft threads slide against my skin.

"It probably was Fate." Phil says absently.

I snort. "Cheeky minx getting involved in our business."

Phil smiles, then says, "so where are we running to? If I may ask."

I roll my eyes, throwing myself down on the bed beside him. "My old apartment." Phil raises his eyebrows. "No, hear me out! They won't think to look there will they? Why would we go back?"

"I don't know if you've seen it since you jumped out of the window but, Dan, it's kind of a mess."

I nod, though it's still heartbreaking to hear, I hadn't expected my apartment to survive a madman with an axe and an agenda unscathed. Then I remember something, "what were the curtains like?"

Phil blinks once, confusion lacing his tone when he says, "fine... Except one window, the drapes were slashed. Other then that they were pretty much untouched."

I grin, excellent. "That's good, they didn't find the money then - we'll need that."

"Money? What? Dan what do you mean?"

I ignore him, standing up to check outside the door with the peephole, the corridor is empty as far as I can see, so I turn back to face Phil who had stood up from the bed and is watching me with concern. "Do you trust me, Phil?" I ask, a hint of pleading in my tone.

Phil's eyes soften, electricity to calm waters. "You know I do."

I hold out a hand. "Then follow me."

Phil takes it without hesitation.

-Phil-

"So we're prophesied to destroy the world?"

"Or save it." Phil corrects, watching Dan as he slashes the curtains in his apartment one by one and stuffs thick wads of cash into a plain black gym bag. This boy is an enigma.

"Still crazy - I believe it though," he looks up then, meeting Phil's gaze with a weird mix of determination, fondness, and confusion, "even if that makes me crazy."

"If you're crazy then I'm crazy."

Dan snorts. "So you've told me all about this crazy Prophecy we're part of, should I tell you my plan?"

It had taken them the better part of the afternoon to reach Dan's apartment, doubling back and cutting through shops and stealing more than a few accessories to throw off anyone who may have been following them, and now that they had arrived Phil just felt tired, the adrenaline of the day wearing down and leaving him groggy. They had spent some time tidying when they arrived, turning the mattress onto its undamaged side and fixing the broken slats of Dan's bed with makeshift stands made out of books. Any rubble had been swept up, the torn curtains closed to hide the numerals spray painted on the windows and the hole in the front door covered by a tarp made out of an old dressing gown Dan swore he had never used.

It's still a mess, but Phil's no longer afraid of standing on glass if he takes his shoes off - not that that would really hurt him anyway, it's the principle of it after all.

"No," he answers at last, groaning a little as he allows himself to fall backwards on the bed. "Tell me in the morning, m'tired."

A moment after he says it, Dan's body joins his on the bed, tucked into Phil's side.

Phil spins to face him, taking in the beauty of Dan's face at this proximity. He has freckles, Phil notes, and tiny little laughter lines around his mouth and eyes. He can't help himself, he leans in and kisses him slowly, sweetly, it lasts only a moment.

He falls asleep easy that night. Lying facing his lover on a broken bed in an apartment in shambles. Hunted. Content.

-

"I know a guy-" Dan says over breakfast the next morning. Phil's bowl is slightly chipped, and there isn't any milk in the fridge for the cereal they had found unharmed in Dan's cupboard, but it's fine. "-my boss, really, who can get us out of the country."

"We're leaving?"

"I think we have to, we can't stay here." Phil nods - Dan is right, the CIA knows who they are, the Romans know who Dan is. They're vulnerable here. "I'll have to go see him."

Phil nods again.

"Alone."

This time Phil looks up, gazing in alarm at Dan's nervous expression - worrying his lip between his teeth. "No." Phil says, putting his bowl down on the counter and crossing his arms.

Dan sighs. "Phil, I'll be fine, Agamemnon is a good guy!"

"You don't even know his real name, how can you possibly know that."

Dan crosses his arms. "He's like a father to me."

"A father who is essentially your pimp." Phil says harshly.

"Wow, rude Phil, thanks." Dan crosses his arms also, scowling at the floor and trying to hide the hurt expression on his face, it's useless, Phil has already seen it.

Phil deflates visibly, reaching out to take one of Dan's hands in his own, he lets him, and Phil is relieved he hasn't cocked it up so soon after finding Dan. "Okay." He sighs. "Okay, go. I can't stop you."

"Phil..."

"No, you're right. I don't know this guy, you do, I trust your judgement."

-Dan-

I wince internally, remembering Vanessa and her betrayal. I hadn't told Phil, hadn't seen it necessary to tell him - it doesn't change anything about the situation. I nod, accepting the apology for what it is and decide to not dwell on it. I've got what I wanted, and I'm sure Agamemnon isn't in cahoots with Vanessa.

I'm sure.

"While I'm talking to him you'll need to pack some clothes from your place - I'll drop you off." I stand, smirking to myself as I head into my walk in wardrobe to collect some leather gear. Phil's gonna look great in leather pants, I can tell.

"You have a car?" I hear Phil say, I chuckle to myself as I move back to the living room area with a pair of leathers for Phil and myself. This boy has no idea what he's gotten himself into with me.

"Not exactly."

I suppress a smirk as I throw the garments at Phil, who catches them with a startled expression on his face. I pause to muffle a laugh with the back of my hand then move on, to the cupboard by the front door to procure two motorcycle helmets, both black.

"A bike?" Phil squeaks, inspecting the pants and jacket I had given him critically.

"Yep!" I say, popping the 'p' as I hold back a bout of laughter. Phil's mouth hangs open comically, and I laugh anyway as I take the helmet from his limp hands and shove it over his head. "Stop gaping and get a move on, we'll be caught." I whisper conspiratorially, then place my own helmet over my head, flipping the visor up to shoot a wink.  
Phil's hands fumble with his own visor, and I laugh again as I lead the way down the corridor to the underground parking complex.

-

Navigating through the streets of New York at midday is not a quick feat, cars and pedestrians often getting in the way, but having a bike has its perks, and where I can I detour through the cracks and empty spaces.

Luckily, back roads are nowhere near as busy.

Agamemnon's building looks the same as any other from the outside.

But on the inside.

I make sure to approach the correct receptionist when I enter the building, the girl sitting behind the counter seemingly no different to the others - if it were for the gold octopus pinned to the collar of her work blazer. She recognises me immediately as I approach, saying something into her phone before standing to welcome me.

"Dan!" She says, her tone pleasant. I nod, glaring away the stares of the businesspeople as I'm escorted down a nondescript corridor. "I've alerted him to your presence here, he's very excited to see you."

I clear my throat. "This isn't a social call I'm afraid."

She smiles secretively. "Is it ever?" She gestures towards an elevator. "You know where to go from here."

I grin, mumbling my thanks, and step into the elevator. I wait patiently for the doors to close, watching as the receptionist struts back down the corridor in heels far too high for her job - and probably far too expensive for a simple receptionist's salary. Of course, only the best for the Octopus. The elevator doors close without a sound, and I pause for only a second before flipping the panel by the buttons and pressing the newly uncovered one. I flip it back as the lift ascends.

Agamemnon's office is on the top floor, the floor above the official top floor, and can only be accessed from the correct elevator, with the correct button, and as the correct person.

At first glance, the office looks like a simple work space - desks littered with papers and manilla folders and half empty coffee cups. Uncomfortable sofas arranged in what looks like it should be a waiting room. Men and women dressed to the nines in tailored suits and expensive jewellery.

But that isn't all the office is - after all, it's owned by the most powerful man in New York City.

Agamemnon's personal assistant greets me off the elevator, a red lipped smile with more bite than bark and a dangerous glint in her eyes.

"Hello Daniel." She says, her voice low and knowing.

"Helen." I greet, stuffing my hands in my pockets because I know it irritates the overly-professional lady in front of me. She frowns, just like I'd expected her to.

"We weren't expecting you." Her eyes flash dangerously, as if daring me to try something. It would be scary, to anyone else, and almost is to me too considering I know for a fact she's packing more than just a warning, but I've been on the receiving end of her warnings for a long time and the effect has just worn off.

"Calm down, Helen." I placate her, beginning the walk to Agamemnon's office since she's insisting on dilly-dallying in the corridor. "I got one favour to ask and then you'll never see me again."

She falters in her step, clearly not expecting that. "You're leaving?" She sounds almost hopeful, I snort.

I nod. "Figured my time here is up." It isn't the whole truth, but she seems to distracted with being happy that she doesn't notice. She's so happy in fact, that she holds the door open for me in an unusual display of kindness.

I raise my eyebrows, but don't comment as I move into the slightly darker room. The blinds are drawn, but the man still stands behind his desk like he can see the whole city through them.

"Sir, Daniel is here to see you." Helen says, and then she is gone.

Agamemnon turns around slowly, a friendly smile gracing his features. "Dan! My boy how are you - I suppose it hasn't been all that long since you were last here."

I smile sadly as he moves to hug me. He may be a mob boss, but he has been like a father to me.

I pull backwards and take him in, the impeccable beard that hasn't seemed to change at all in the years I've known him, the ageing wrinkles on his forehead, the full head of hair gelled back and slick. The icy eyes that can be so cold, but today just look happy. They always look happy to me.

I take a deep breath, there's no point in beating around the bush. "I need to leave, Mem."

Agamemnon's smile drops off his face, his eyebrows furrowing a she takes a step backwards. He looks me over, his critical eye apparently seeing something I can't as he nods, taking a deep breath. "I can't say I didn't see this coming - that boy you've been with, losing your home."

I falter at the mention of Phil, my eyes widening - but of course he knows. He knows everything.

He steps forward, calloused hand coming up to caress my face before resting on my shoulder. "It's not safe for you here anymore, Dan."

His words lay heavy on my soul, and as I look up into those wise old eyes - I know. He knows. I smile, he smiles.

His hand leaves my shoulder as he saunters over to his desk, opening the top drawer to pull out a plastic folder. He beckons me over and I go willingly, leaning over the other side of the desk to see as he empties the folder to reveal two passports, two drivers licenses, several bank cards and a few paper documents.

"I found your boy, took the liberty of making him one as well - I knew wherever you went from here it'd be with him."

I gape, amazed, as I thumb through the documents seeing birth certificates, bank statements, graduation certificates. There's everything, everything we need to get away. An envelope lands on top of the birth certificate - Phil's new birth certificate - and I look up, startled.

"Consider this one a gift." Agamemnon chuckles. I open the envelope and pull out two tickets, plane tickets, one way, to Seoul.

"Sir..." I trail off, tucking everything back into the folder hastily. "This is...."

The man nods, smiling sadly. "I know, I know, just promise me something, Dan?"

I nod, blinking back the tears as I realise that this is it. This is goodbye.

To everything.

"Promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise." I whisper, a lump in my throat restricting my airways. I gasp. "I promise."

-

The sun hangs low in the sky by the time I leave, a wintery chill settling over the city like a blanket - like a warning.

I must get to Phil fast.

I survey my surroundings before putting on the helmet, almost certain I'm being watched from the shadows of the alley across the street, from the windows of the building above. But there is no-one.

Shoppers, commuters, tourists, and the homeless drift past without so much as a second -or even first, in some cases - glance in my direction.

The engine of my bike cuts out all noise as I zip through the streets, mind set on one destination and eyes set on the road ahead of me as I weave effortlessly in between the stagnant cars. I stop only when the lights turn red, worrying my lip between my teeth below the protective visor of my helmet.

A girl arrives at the crossing late, but she doesn't seem to be in any rush as she steps out onto the road in front of the waiting traffic. Her hair flows behind her, straight and dark like a veil, her gold jewellery glitters in the sunset, she grins when she looks at me, her yes somehow locking onto mine even through the visor. I scowl. Behind her, another girl stands, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe pony tail, her eyes wide and bright as she points in the direction the girl is going.

I follow her finger, and see he dark haired girl disappear into an alleyway. I rev the engine, push forward even before the light changes - ignoring the angered yells the other drivers send my way out of their windows as I cut several people off - and follow the girl into the darkened alleyway.

My helmet hits the floor with a clatter as I pull it off my head, the bike resting between my thighs. 

"Vanessa." I say, catching the girl's attention. She turns slowly, deliberately, like she knows she has he upper-hand. She's wrong.

"Daniel." She purrs, her accent heavier than ever before. She's changed since we last saw each other, dressed in a simple pair of boyfriend cut jeans with a white overlarge t-shirt tucked in, her golden rings and earrings don't shine in the shadowed alleyway anymore, not like they did in the fading sunlight. There's nothing special about this girl. Nothing dangerous at all. The Vanessa I knew would never have been caught in clothes that weren't black or skin tight - but then again, the Vanessa I knew is a myth. "Where have you been?" She asks, like I'm a petulant child, running away from his mother in the mall.

"Woke up in a coffin." I shrug. "Got myself out of the coffin, decided I wasn't ready to die."

She pouts, mockingly, like it's all part of a game. "It is a shame, I was looking forward to killing you." She waves her hand disinterestedly. "It is no matter."

I hear him coming up behind him before I feel the knife embed itself into the leather of my motorcycle jacket. I wince, throwing myself sideways so that both Vanessa and Byron - the Gimp - are in my field of vision. Without so much as a wince, I pull the knife out of my back and twirl it between my fingers.

"Honey." I sigh, inspecting the tiny blade with insult. I mean, really? This little thing isn't going to do shit. "You're going to need a bigger knife." Byron grins, metal glints, I scoff as the man procures a larger, serrated, knife from his coat sleeves - how unoriginal. "Why didn't you start with that one!?" I exclaim.

Byron steps forward, but before he can take more than two steps the tiny knife once embedded into my leather jacket, embeds itself into his forehead. He stumbles backwards, falling into a slumped position against the wall of the alley. A small trickle of blood runs between his eyebrows, and the only noise is the sound of a knife falling out of dead hands onto a concrete floor. I turn to Vanessa, her eyes comically wide and somewhat alarmed.

"You ki- you killed him!" She whispers, her eyes snapping between the slumped form of her henchman and myself.

"He would have killed me."

"Dan!" She gasps, and I see tears in her eyes. I step forward, my hands flexing into fists at my sides. She steps back. "Dan!"

"You would kill me too, Nessa." I say, voice flat as the scared girl's back hits the grimy wall of the alley. "You tried to."

"I am sorry!" It's such a change, such a change from the Vanessa that I knew, even from the Vanessa I didn't. This is another girl entirely, a scared little girl in a big city she no longer has any power over.

"Vanessa." I murmur, unclenching my fists and bringing them up to rest on either side of her face, stroking the long dark hair behind her ears. She sniffs pathetically, the fear in her eyes shining brighter than a thousand suns, from this close, I can almost believe she's innocent.

"It is my belief, you have to understand."

I nod empathetically, accepting her reasons. She did it for belief, as am I, in a way. "And it's my life, you have to understand, Ness."

Vanessa sobs one last time as I plant a slow and deliberate kiss on her forehead. I stroke her hair back one more time, and then swiftly yank her head to the right. The jarring sound of bones snapping echoes through the alley in the same way the scraping sound of Byron's fall did. It lasts only a moment, and then Vanessa is joining her compatriot on the floor.

There's no blood this time, just unseeing glassy eyes, tears leaving tracks down blotched cheeks that will soon dry, the skin soon will turn grey.

I feel nothing as I step away from the body of my oldest friend; no happiness, no sadness, no relief. Nothing. "I am sorry." I say, picking up my discarded helmet as I move closer to my bike.

I stop once I'm sitting , legs still firmly planted on the floor, and my eyes once again find her body. It comes to me then that, the reason Phil and I will never be safe, the very reason why we could never stop running, is because of something called the Romans. A circle of people gunning for our lives.

The CIA have no pull outside of the United States, it's easy to get away from them, but what of the Romans? They're everywhere. There's no escaping them.

I'm almost 100% sure Vanessa was one of them, would be willing to bet another round with Byron on it. And if Nessa is one of them, that means they know who I am.

But not Phil, Phil has never been targeted like I have, and they only need to kill one of us to end the prophecy.

They can never find Phil.

And the only thing leading them to Phil is me.

My thoughts travel back to the passports tucked safely in the seat compartment of my bike, the plane tickets and the new lives they offer. How long will it take for them to find me is Seoul? How long will it take for them to find Phil after that?

Not long, if he's by my side.

With that resolution, I kick my bike to life, the engine rumbling underneath me, and tear our of the alley. There's no third glance for Vanessa. There's no more looking back.


	7. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah this is how it ended sorry for keeping you all waiting for over a year x

Phil feels eyes on him as he walks through the city streets, clinging desperately to the backpack he carries on his shoulders. It's heavy, but not so heavy that it would stop him from running if he needs to.

Every time a man in a suit or sunglasses appears in his peripherals Phil finds himself veering in the other direction, eyes peeled for somebody following him, or talking into an earpiece - talking to somebody who isn't there.

Once, Phil is startled by a woman on a mobile phone, believing her to be talking into one of said earpieces and feeling immensely stupid when she turns at his flinch only to see the piece of metal glinting as its pressed up against her ear. She gives him a strange look, and he bolts in the other direction.

It's all for naught though as he stops in his tracks, Fate standing in the centre of the street not ten meters ahead of him, the crowd moving around her. She's facing away from him, and Phil watches as her head turns to the side, her eyes rising to meet his. She grins, and all too suddenly Phil is yanked backwards, strong arms pulling him into the van that had pulled up behind him as he was staring at Fate.

Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

His backpack is yanked off his shoulders as his hands are cuffed behind his back and Phil scowls as Armitage grins at him, leaning back casually against the wall, perched on a bench that runs the length of the van.

"Phil, nice to see you!" The man takes his backpack out of the arms of one of his henchmen and peers inside. "Going somewhere?"

Phil says nothing, just turns the fear he feels building in the pit of his stomach into the most steely, Dan-like glare he can muster, and raises his chin defiantly.

Armitage just grins wider, if that's even possible.

\---

They take him to the same place as last time, their first mistake since Phil knows his way around the area easily enough by now, and uncuff his hands before shoving him into a cell. Another mistake.

He never realised before, but the CIA really know nothing about this Prophecy business. None of them really seem sure how to handle Phil, always checking if they should be doing something, throwing a lot of confused glances when they think Phil won't notice. A month ago, Phil wouldn't have. Hell, a week ago he didn't.

Now he notices.

Their third mistake, is when they leave him alone. Presumably it's to make him feel anxious, make him wait to be interrogated so that the nerves can set in.   
But Phil remembers Fate, the look in her eyes before he was taken, remembers the key around his neck, one he'd already used once to escape the clutches of Armitage and his men - one they seemingly overlooked, in their confusion.

He stares at it in his hand for a moment, doubtful of whether it'll work a second time, before dismissing that thought and quickly whipping it over his head, wrapping his arms around the bars of his cage to fit the key into the lock. "Please." He whispers, and the lock turns.

The key unlocks the door to the room he's in too, and Phil quickly but quietly makes his way down the corridor towards where he's pretty sure the exit is. He stops halfway down, an errant glance into the rooms off to the sides showed his backpack sitting on a table, two men rifling through its contents.

Phil feels a little disgruntled as one of them manhandles his underwear, but the feeling is overshadowed by smugness at how easy they're making this.

How easy it is to slip into the room, knock the first guy out with a well aimed punch and then take the other guy down with a swift back kick to the throat. It's easy.

In a matter of moments, Phil's repacked his bag and slipped out of the open window in the room.

It's dark as he runs through the streets towards Dan's apartment, not bothering to look behind him as he did before - fat lot of good it did him the first time.

There's a stirring in his gut that sets him on edge, makes him pump his legs faster and faster to get to Dan. Something feels wrong, uneasy, like the scales are about to tip out of balance, like the planet is about to stop spinning or the moon is going to fall out of the sky.

The wrongness only grows as Phil enters Dan's apartment and spots the papers on the bed. He approaches wearily, his heart beating somewhere in his throat.

It promptly falls out of his throat and into his lungs when he sees what the papers are.

They're documents - documents with Phil's face, but not Phil's name. Bank records, passports, credit cards, diplomas, and a lone ticket to Seoul. One way.

"Dan?" He calls out, knowing the boy must have left these here for Phil to find.

"He's not here."

Phil whips around and, for the second time that night, his eyes land on the ethereal figure of Fate, her glowing eyes watching him with a sad kind of fondness.

"You missed him."

"Where is he?"

"On his way to the airport, he'll be there soon I expect, though, he had some trouble with his bike." She smiles, almost like she had something to do with it. She probably did.

"Where is he going?"

"London, I think he's decided."

Phil thinks about the plane ticket lying on a pile of fake documents, the one way ticket to Seoul left for him to use and shakes his head. "No he isn't."

"No," Fate's head cocks to the side, consideringly. She looks up, as if watching something play out on the ceiling, Phil glances up too but sees nothing. "I don't believe he is." Then her eyes find Phil's once more. "There's a taxi dropping off a couple outside in two minutes.

Phil springs into action, grabbing the passports and documents and stuffing them into his bag hurriedly before legging it from the apartment complex, a man coming out of the lift means he can get straight on it without waiting, which he is thankful for, but the wait for it to creep all the way down to the first floor is agonising and, by the third floor, Phil gives up and runs the rest of the way down the stairwell.

He makes it to the taxi just in time. 

 

-Dan-

All is quiet in the taxi on the way to the airport, my old bike abandoned on the side of the motorway, along with what's left of my old life. And Phil.

The taxi driver had tried to speak, but soon fell quiet when he realised I wasn't much of a talker. Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to feel bad about the dismayed expression I see every time the man glances in his rearview mirror.

He'd seemed very put out when I wouldn't even tell him where I was going "on vacation" to. It doesn't matter, though, the less who know the better. To make up for it, I make sure to pay him a large tip once we arrive.

A feeling of immense sadness overcomes me as I walk towards my gate, a feeling I hadn't felt in a long while. The elastic feeling from before has returned to my chest, less pronounced, more anticipatory than anything.

It feels wrong to be walking away from Phil, even if it will save him in the long run.

I think about the two plain tickets in my pocket, one to London, one to Seoul. I could still change my mind, I glance up as I think this, watching the door longingly, thinking about the other plane boarding in twenty minutes just down the corridor. Phil will either be getting on that plane or staying, I hope for the former.

Phil needs to be safe.

I gasp as I catch sight of jet black hair appearing in the doorway and, within a second, my arms are filled with a warm slender body.

"Phil what are you doing?"

"I'm staying with you."

"You can't."

"Dan we need each other."

"This isn't negotiable."

Phil steps back, a hard expression on his face. "Yes it is - you're not helping anyone by doing this, Dan, you think the CIA are the only people who know my face? By now they've probably passed my picture on to every major government agency - I'm just as hunted as you are, Dan."

I flinch, the dread setting in for real. Phil is right, he isn't safe. They're both in the same boat.

"What do we do?" He asks.

Phil smiles. "We stay together."

Dan nods, then nods again, harder. "I know what to do."

Phil grins. "Are you sure?" Dan nods, and kisses him.

He pulls away, heart racing, "positive."

-•-

"Sir, we have visual confirmation of both Phil and Dan leaving terminal eight and entering terminal six."

Agent Armitage nods, grinning. "They thought they could fool us, Agent, get Korea on the phone for me."

"Yes, sir."

"They can't hide from us." 

-•-

Phil watches the city lights below him, feeling lighter than ever this high in the sky. Dan is a firm presence beside him, his body heat resonating and warming him from the inside out.

"Do you think we'll be safe now?" He asks, not bothering to remove his eyes from the city scape below him.

Dan's head drops to his shoulder, pressing a kiss into his collarbone. "For a while, at least." Phil leans into Dan's touch, sighing contentedly, and then chuckles. Dan pulls away, a grin toying at his lips, "what?" He asks, holding in an amused chuckle himself.

"I'm just thinking about what you said... About your apartment..." At Dan's inquisitive gaze, he continues. "You were right that they'd never look there, somewhere we'd been before, they expect us to run, not to stay in place."

Dan grins and leans forward to claim Phil's lips with his own, the sounds of the city disappearing well below them, perched on the edge of the tallest skyscraper they could sneak onto. Dan pulls away with a sigh of contentment, resting his forehead against Phil's so that their lips brush together when he next speaks.

"It's easy to disappear in New York City."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mentioned on wattpad that there may be a sequel but i never posted it bc i didnt finish it so that probs wont happen bc im useless but hanks for reading ily all bye

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a list of triggers:  
> -explicit sexual content including and not limited to BDSM (no rape or anything of the sort)  
> -extreme violence  
> -minor character death  
> -mentions of past domestic abuse (Dan ran away from an abusive household - the abuse is never described further than that and only ever used as an excuse for Dan knowing about his 'powers' from a young age)


End file.
